


Amor Fati

by thefrankydoyles



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrankydoyles/pseuds/thefrankydoyles
Summary: Amor Fati: Latin, (N) a love of one’s fateMay 2012; Franky Doyle, a contestant on a popular reality cooking show, has a rough past and a short fuse. When she's targeted for harassment by one of the show’s judges, she finds herself itching to give the show exactly what they want— a fight.But then she meets Bridget Westfall.AKA, an AU in which Franky meets Bridget before she ever sets foot in Wentworth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This fic is AU, but everything that has been assumed or stated about Franky's childhood and past before her spot on the reality show, is still true in this story. Bridget, on the other hand, is a clinical psychologist, not a forensic psychologist. Also, I'm going to do my best to keep all the nuances of the reality show as realistic as possible. (I am assuming Franky was on a Masterchef: Australia clone) 
> 
> ****Also for the purposes of this fic, think the Mike Pennisi that was introduced in season 1, not season 5. (The arrogant, loud, harasser). 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I SO appreciate any and all feedback! 
> 
> Lastly, infinite thanks to Ashleigh, the absolute BEST Fridget beta in the entire world.

“Move your arse, Doyle!”

The muscles in Franky’s neck tensed as the bellow from across the kitchen pierced her ears. She hid her grimace and bit her tongue, turning in place to add extra olive oil to the simmering skillet.

Franky glanced at the giant, glowing red numbers hanging on the center wall of the large room. She still had ten minutes— she could do this.

The kitchen continued to bustle, the anxious energy becoming thicker by the second. Franky tossed the chopped grapes and shallots into the pan. She knew choosing steak as the center of her meal was risky; the red meat took longer to cook and the recipe was more complicated than if she would have made the chicken, but she was confident she made the right choice.

The minutes dwindled, and as Franky continued to add in the last of the seasonings to her dish, she felt a looming presence behind her.

“I don't know how you think you’ll ever survive in a real kitchen, Doyle— you move like a snail!”

Franky pushed past the stocky man to grab her vinaigrette mix from the counter.

Pennisi scoffed. “How about an excuse me?”

“How about you let me finish cooking my fucking food, Mike?”

Franky had muttered the retort under her breath, but Pennisi heard her and made a show of stepping out of the way and grandly gesturing towards the stove.

“By all means, princess.”

Franky gripped the handle of the skillet a little too tightly and bit her tongue again, this time hard enough to draw blood.

 _Fuckin’ prick_.

Franky wasn't stupid. She knew the producers were all for this shit: the arrogant judge singling out the “tough chick”, nudging her along until her gasket finally blew— it was perfect fuckin’ TV!

She would be damned if she gave any of them the satisfaction.

At least not today.

The arsehole was standing so close to her, though. She could feel his breath and smell his sweat as she mixed the final ingredients into the skillet; Franky thought she was going to vomit. It was only week two of this hellhole production, and she wondered how long she could last.

_“Franky, just promise me one thing. Don't let anyone get to you, ya hear me? Keep those fists at your sides and your head down, and you just focus on making the bloody best, tastiest food on this damn planet. Wow them, like I know you can.”_

The words of her old manager at the diner echoed in her ears, and they calmed her enough to finish the task and present her finished product with only seconds to spare.

Thankfully, Pennisi wasn't the one to taste or score her food this time around; she easily made it to the next round, with praises being sung for her garlic-crusted flank steak and pan-roasted grapes.

After the cameras switched off, Franky felt her limbs relax a bit as she walked back over to her station to clean up the oily mess she left on the stove. She hated leaving it for the janitorial staff.

“Good on ya, Franky, for those marks this round. Give me that recipe some time, eh?” One of the other contestants winked at her on his way out the door.

Franky smirked, her upper lip curling into a half-smile. “Yeah, you fuckin’ wish.”

Franky dumped the pot of water into the sink and tossed the dirty dish into the utility dishwasher. When she turned around to grab the skillet from the stove, she caught Mike Pennisi’s eye in the corner of the room as he was unclipping his mic.

“Maybe that's your true calling in the kitchen, eh Doyle? Bet you can really make those dishes sparkle!” Pennisi laughed, clearly pleased with himself, as he walked out of the room.

Franky lowered her eyes and scrunched her face as blood pumped hot through her veins. This pompous shithead just didn't let up, did he? The cameras were off— she should take her chance now and go deck him one.

But she didn't. Instead, she balled her fists and shook the thought, inhaling a sharp breath.

Franky grabbed the skillet handle off the stove, but her mind was muddled and she forgot that, in her haste during the challenge, she hadn't turned the heat off on the stove. A bit of nearly boiling oil splashed up onto her wrist and she involuntarily cried out, a deep burning sensation immediately spreading across her skin.

“FUUUUUCK!”

The skillet clamored to the floor and Franky darted to the sink, thrusting her wrist under the cold water. One of the assistant producers ran to her and after taking one glance at the bright pink skin, yelled for someone to call for the medic. Franky cursed again as she saw a boil appear under the water.

She hadn't been burned in a long time; she almost forgot how much it fucking hurt.

The medics arrived a minute later, and Franky wasn't even sure what the hell they did other than make her damn wrist hurt even more.

Fifteen minutes and an ugly bandage later, one of the medics asked her if she had a preference of hospital.

Franky almost laughed right in his face.

“I'm not going to hospital.”

“You have to go, sorry— legal reasons,” the assistant producer, who was still hovering like a goddamn hawk, interjected.

“Nuh, too bad, I’m not going,” Franky shook her head.

The A.P. eyed her with a mix of amusement and confusion. “You want to stay on the show? Ya gotta go.”

Franky heaved a sigh and glanced upwards.

“Fucking fantastic.”

**

Franky hadn't been in a hospital since she was ten years old, and the place gave her the creeps as much as it did back then. She didn't like anyone looking at her— judging her. She just wanted to get this over with and go back to set. The whole thing was a complete waste of time anyway; the burns weren't even that bad!

A nurse eventually came into the room to look at her wrist and fill out some paperwork.

“The doctor’ll be in soon, you’ll need to take that shirt off.”

Franky eyed her incredulously. “You're kidding, right?”

“No. It's too thick to roll up all the way, yeah? Your entire forearm needs to be out,” the nurse replied flatly before exiting the room.

Franky groaned into her hands. The one day she didn't wear a tank top under her stupid white chef’s shirt.

The doctor knocked and entered the room five minutes later; she was a tall, lanky girl with dark hair, and she looked fresh out of med school. She couldn't have been much older than Franky, if at all. She said hello without looking up from her clipboard; when her eyes finally moved to meet Franky’s, they stopped halfway, catching on the cherry blossom tree tattoo spanning Franky’s stomach and ribs, and the odd, discolored, circular marks at the end of the inked stems.

Franky clicked her tongue. “Take a picture, it'll last longer.”

The young woman's face turned a shade of crimson as she averted her eyes and cleared her throat. She went on with examining Franky’s wrist, diagnosing a second degree burn and prescribing ointment under a closed bandage for the next week. None of this was new information to Franky.

The doctor popped out of the room again, returning a few minutes later with fresh bandages.

“So can I go?” Franky inquired as she pulled her shirt back over her head.

“Um, not quite.” The doctor paused and wrote something down on her clipboard.

“Someone is going to come in and talk to you, it'll just take a moment,” she added.

Franky creased her brow and crossed her arms over her chest.

 _No fucking way_.

Before Franky could tell the doctor to politely fuck off, the girl was already on her way out the door.

“Nice to meet you Franky, if you have any issues with the new burns, come back and see me.”

Franky didn't miss the chosen accentuation of the word “new”. Scoffing to herself, she shook her head. Un-fucking-believable. Franky gathered her stuff together quickly; no way was she hanging around to talk to some know-it-all shrink.

Franky swiftly pushed the exam-room door open and stepped over the threshold into the hospital hallway— she stopped short, just barely avoiding a collision with a woman on the other side. It wasn't the doctor, though.

“Hey, you must be Franky,” she smiled warmly. “My name’s Bridget Westfall.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your initial reviews and kudos- Hope you continue to enjoy.

Franky narrowed her eyes at the short blonde, who was effectively blocking her from making a hasty exit out of the hospital room.

Bridget stuck out her arm towards Franky in way of a greeting, but Franky ignored the extended hand, instead flapping her own arms against her sides in exasperation.

“Look, I'm sorry that your time’s been wasted, but I don't need a shrink.”

Bridget shifted her body weight and retracted her hand, but didn't budge from the doorway. “That may very well be, but I was hoping we could chat for a sec.”

Bridget raised her eyebrows at Franky hopefully.

Franky shook her head. “I don't do talking.”

“Hm. Okay.” Bridget nodded, seeming to accept Franky’s uncompromising response, and stepped out of the way.

But Franky didn't bolt. Instead, she cocked her head, truly looking at this woman for the first time.

She was a tiny thing, at least three inches shorter than Franky even in her black heels. The woman was older, too, but not by more than a decade, probably. She had a pair of form-fitting black slacks on, and a grey leather jacket that hung over a silky white shirt. Something about the way those pants were hugging this woman’s hips made Franky wish, not for the first time, that she had changed out of her chef’s uniform before her trip to the hospital.

And, there was something about the way those blue eyes were holding her gaze, so calm and even, that somehow made Franky’s feet stay firmly in place.

“Listen, I know what you're getting at,” Franky crossed her arms over her chest. “I had an accident at work. I was idiot, I wasn't thinking, I got burned. No one did this to me, and I sure as hell didn't do it to myself."

Franky held up her wrist for good measure, wondering why the hell she felt the need to explain herself to this shrink.

“Looks painful,” Bridget gestured towards Franky’s wrist.

Franky shrugged. “It’ll heal.”

“You’re on the cooking show, right? That one with the obnoxious judge?”

Franky smirked, amused. “What's your point?”

Bridget’s lips extended into a small, close-lipped smile. “No point. Just seems stressful, that's all.”

Franky creased her brow, searching for some kind of hidden insinuation beneath the woman’s words, but she couldn't find one.

“Nah, it's a regular walk in the park,” Franky relaxed her face and winked at her.

Bridget chuckled, “Listen, just do me one favor before you head out.”

Franky raised her eyebrows and flashed a brief but open smile. “What’s that?”

Bridget undid the metal clasp at the top of her clipboard and pulled out a small piece of paper.

“Just take my card,” Bridget said as she extended the paper to Franky. “If you ever change your mind, my door’s always open.”

Franky took the card, examining it as she turned it over in her hand. “This isn't the hospital’s address.”

“I see private clients on Mondays and Thursdays, that’s where my office is,” Bridget explained.

Franky couldn't help herself and wagged her eyebrows. “Oooh, _private._ ”

Bridget ignored the innuendo, but Franky caught the slightest of micro smirks that played on her lips.

“Door’s always open,” Bridget reiterated as she turned on her heels.

“Catch ya later, Gidget,” Franky called after her.

Bridget turned around but kept walking. “It's Bridget.”

Franky winked at Bridget as she rounded the corner, and smiled to herself. She stuffed the business card into her back pocket, shaking her head as she finally made her way to the hospital exit.

**

By the time Franky made it back to the communal house she shared with the other contestants, it was already way past dinner time; everyone was apparently in their rooms, doing whatever prep or other shit they had to do. It was fine by her that she missed any powwows that went on in her absence. She fucking hated this house, along with ninety percent of the people she shared it with. They were all entitled dickheads who have walked through life expecting everything be handed to them on a silver platter.

She even only barely tolerated Amy, the green-eyed redhead she flirted with on the first day of filming, and who had somehow wound up in her bed almost every night since. The girl was nice enough, but she talked way too fuckin’ much, and it didn't seem like there was much beyond the surface. The situation suited Franky fine for now— Amy was attractive and game, and Franky could always count on her for a nice thirty minute escape.

So when there was a knock on her door just after 11 pm, Franky pulled her visitor in and locked the door behind her, immediately moving to discard Amy’s purple tank top.

“Hey, wait, Franky—” Amy put her hands flat against Franky’s shoulders, signaling for her to pull back.

“Ames, come on,” Franky leaned in, letting her breath trail over Amy’s neck.

“I heard what happened, that you had to go to hospital, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Franky whined, as she moved her hand to the waistband of Amy’s short, flannel sleep shorts.

“It’s okay if you're not, I would understand— I had an oil burn once, it stung for the first few days and—”

Franky placed both her hands on either side of Amy’s face and kissed her hard, effectively shutting her up and moving business right along.

Forty-five minutes later, Amy stood up from the bed and grabbed her discarded shirt from the floor.

She looked back at Franky, smiling and licking her lips. “You’re amazing, Franky Doyle.”

Franky winked at her and sat up in the bed, the sheet falling from her torso to expose the vibrant ink that covered her upper arm. She rested her body weight on her elbows behind her.

“See ya tomorrow?”

Franky saw the fleeting look of disappointment flicker in Amy’s eyes; she may have taken pity on the girl and invited her to stay the night, but she just wasn't in the mood. And truthfully, her wrist still felt like it were fucking on fire.

Amy nodded and turned to leave, stopping to pick up a small, rectangular piece of paper that had fallen to the center of the floor.

“What's this?” Amy asked, handing it over to Franky.

Franky took it and threw it on her nightstand without a glance. “Nothin', just something they gave me at the hospital.”

“Night,” Franky added, when Amy didn't make a move to leave right away.

When the redhead finally shut the door behind her, Franky let out a breath and leaned back on her pillow. She turned over and grabbed the small card back from the table.

_Bridget Westfall_

_Clinical Psychologist_

_86 Bank Place, Melbourne, VIC_

_Suite 1B_

_03 7111 5462_

Franky ran the pad of her pointer finger over the name at the top at the card. She reckoned she should just toss it; it wasn't like she was actually thinking of going to see this chick. But Franky simply placed the card back on her nightstand and switched off the lamp. She rolled over on her side,  the image of the psychologist, with the soft blue eyes and confident sway, dancing along the backs of her eyelids as she finally dozed off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Franky barreled through the kitchen doors of the swanky restaurant. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes but she would be damned if she allowed them to fall. 

She slammed her hand onto the cold slate of the countertop, and the moisture threatening to pour out onto her cheeks disappeared. Cameras had followed her into the kitchen, but she didn't care. Better to see her angry than weak.

Franky leaned forward into the counter and wiped the back of her hand across the bridge of her nose.

_ Fuck! _

Her team should have won, goddamnit. Their food was better, their customer service was better, and their organization had been as effective as a factory line! But the other team made more money, so that was that.

It had been the first “team” challenge assigned; each of the two teams ran the kitchen and management of a different five-star restaurant for the day. They had five hours to prep, and three hours to cook and serve. Franky, along with the rest of her team, thought they had it in the fucking bag.

Franky’s blood pressure rose at the image of Mike Pennisi’s arrogant, pleased-as-peaches grin when the results were announced.

“What do you think happened, Francesca?” Pennisi had patronizingly asked—as if he already knew the answer to the question— in front of the cameras, two other judges, and the nineteen remaining contestants.

Franky had shrugged. “We ran the kitchen as efficiently as possible, and the food our team put together, in my opinion, was on par with the finest restaurants in this city. I'm proud of the work we did, even if the money came up a fraction shorter than the other team’s.”

Pennisi had smirked. “You're happy with being a loser, Francesca? Because if that's your goal, then by all means, be ‘ _ proud _ ’. I think that's your problem though, Francesca. If you're willing to settle for the bottom of the barrel— which, it’s pretty clear you are— you better get used to being a loser for the rest of your life, eh?”

Franky squeezed her eyes shut, her attempt to shake the memory from only moments ago backfiring severely.

_ “You're such a loser, Francesca. It's probably not your fault though, you must have gotten it from your father. Now go get mummy her drink.” _

_ “My dad is not a loser!” _

_ “Yes, he is, and he couldn't take what a little shit loser you turned out to be, too, so he left.” _

Franky opened her eyes and stared at her reflection in the countertop until the image became blurry. The kitchen was crowded now, the other contestants having returned to clean up and collect their things.

“Franky, you okay?” One of her teammates asked apprehensively. “You know, Pennisi’s a shit, he just talks out of his arse for ratings.”

“Mm.” Franky answered, barely registering the words.

She had to get out of there; she needed to be anywhere but there, huddled in a massive kitchen that felt ten times smaller than its actual size. The walls were closing in. But where could she go? The show fucking owned her; she couldn't even take a shit without them knowing about it. They didn't let the contestants off their leashes unless they absolutely had to— so pretty much only for health reasons.

Franky’s eyes suddenly went wide as a light switched on in her head; she grabbed her things and darted out of the kitchen.

She had a therapy appointment to get to.

**

Bridget cursed under her breath as another street light turned red. She was running uncharacteristically late for work, and the universe seemed hell-bent on keeping it that way.

It was Thursday, which meant she had exactly one hour between leaving the hospital and the first scheduled appointment at her office. The office was only a ten minute drive from the hospital, and usually she made it with plenty of time to grab an early dinner and do some prep before her first client arrived. Today was a different story, however, as she got caught up in two patient intakes just before she was meant to leave.

She sighed as the traffic built up in front of her, and she took a bite of the emergency protein bar she always kept in her purse.

Her phone buzzed in its place on the passenger seat, and Bridget glanced at it, smiling as her brother’s name flashed on the screen.

“Hey there, stranger,” Bridget answered as she connected her car’s Bluetooth.

“Well hey there, yourself, Bridgie— you busy?”

It was good to hear her only sibling’s voice after a couple of weeks. Adam lived and worked in Sydney as a graphic designer, and between both of their schedules, she hardly got to see him anymore. They were close; Adam was a year younger than Bridget, and they grew up pretty much inseparable. They shared the same sense of humor, and love for 80’s music, and they were each other’s biggest supporters. Adam was there was Bridget when she came out to their conservative parents after she graduated from high school, and Bridget was the one to help Adam get back on his feet, after he went through a particularly rough divorce and lost his job.

Bridget was thankful for Adam’s never-failing impeccable timing; she needed something to take her mind off of the fact that she was going nowhere fast in this traffic.

For the next fifteen minutes, her brother filled Bridget in on his latest escapades throughout Sydney, and the new projects he was working on. Bridget couldn't help but feel a surge of pride— her brother was thriving.

“So Bridgie, how are things down in Melbs? Gone out on any dates recently?” Adam shifted the conversation onto Bridget, and, as usual, didn't waste any time inquiring about her love life.

“Nope,” Bridget answered curtly.

“Aw, come on, Bridge, it’s been awhile since Julia—”

“It's been six months, for fuck’s sake, Adam,” Bridget interjected.

“Yeah, that's my point! I know she burned ya, Bridge, but ya gotta get back out there.”

“I'm just worried about you, that’s all. I want you to be happy,” Adam added after there was a pause from Bridget’s end of the line.

Bridget sighed, already exasperated from this topic.

“I  _ am _ happy. I’m fine, Adam.  And I really do not appreciate you insinuating that I’ll never be happy again unless I go and shack up with the first woman who climbs into my pants.”

Bridget knew she was being snippy, but truthfully, she was so  _ tired _ of people asking if she was okay— how she was  _ doing _ . And they always looked at her with the same pitying expression; as if they expected her to be broken.

Well, she wasn't broken and she  _ was _ , apparently to the shock of everyone around her, happy. People hurt one another and they break-up and they move on all the time, and that was that. She had her heart broken, but it wasn't the end of the world; she wouldn't let it be. And right now, she certainly wasn't looking to plunge head first into another long-term relationship.

“Listen, Adam, I gotta run, okay? I’m pulling up to the car park now.”

_ Thank god. _

“Yeah, okay— but Bridge, I didn't mean—”

“I know,” Bridget cut her brother off and sighed. “I know, it's fine, yeah? I'll call you tomorrow, promise. Love you.”

Bridget just barely stayed on the line long enough to hear her brother’s “love you, too, Bridge”; she threw her Volkswagen into park and grabbed her bag, exiting the car as fast as possible.

When the elevator doors opened to the familiar hallway two minutes later, Bridget plastered a smile on her face and waved a pleasant hello to the secretary as she passed through the waiting room.

“Linda, I apologize— I got held up at the hospital, you can send Dan back as soon as he’s ready.”

“Will do, Bridget,” the secretary nodded, then added, “Oh, there's also a walk-in here to see you. I told her you were booked full tonight, but she insisted on waiting.”

Linda gestured to the right, and Bridget followed her line of sight until she locked eyes with the brunette in the far back end of the room.

The corners of the woman’s mouth raised just the slightest bit as she nodded her head in Bridget’s direction, but didn't make a move to get up from her seat. Usually, when a walk-in came into the office, they wanted to speak with Bridget right away— often practically bombarding her with a sense of panic, hastily explaining (or in some cases, demanding) that they needed to see her  _ right now _ .

But Franky Doyle just sat, her posture relaxed as she scratched off a piece of old drywall splatter on the windowsill next to her. Her eyes were still locked on Bridget’s, though, and she finally gave a slight wave. Franky’s stationary stance didn't indicate to Bridget a sense of entitlement, but just the opposite; for whatever reason, Franky Doyle was plenty fine with being on Bridget’s time, and a twinge of curiosity shifted in her gut.

“Bridget?” Linda cleared her throat.

Bridget quickly shifted her gaze away from Franky and towards her secretary. “Hmm?”

“I asked if you want me to schedule her for another day,” Linda explained, clearly amused that Bridget had apparently zoned out for a second.

Bridget quickly got her wits about her.  _ What the hell was going on today? _

_ “ _ No, that's okay, Linda— I'll go over and speak with her.”

“Your first appointment is scheduled for three minutes from now,” Linda reminded her, but Bridget didn't respond, as she was already walking towards Franky.

Franky stood up as Bridget got closer. The brunette was donned in black jeans and a maroon short-sleeved top, paired with a pair of black combat boots. Bracelets lined her wrist, and Bridget noted the vibrant ink splayed on her arm, something she hadn't seen the last time under the girl’s heavy sleeves.

“Decided to give this ‘talking’ thing a try after all?” Bridget smiled.

“‘Course not, just came to see ya,” Franky teased, and Bridget wondered just how long it would take to draw a straight answer from her.

“Well, unfortunately, I don't have time to chat— work to do,” Bridget played along, glancing behind her at her office door.

“Alright, so I’ll just see you in your office then,” Franky shrugged. “Whenever you have time, I can wait.”

Bridget took a breath and paused, wondering what could have possibly changed Franky’s tune so dramatically, within only a few days time. Four days ago, Franky barely gave Bridget a second glance, nearly knocking her over in a ball of frenetic energy; she couldn't get out of there fast enough, and she certainly wanted nothing to do with therapy. Now, Franky seemed more than content to wait around all night to get into that office.

Whatever the reason, Bridget was glad she had trusted her instincts a few days ago and given her card to Franky.

“Listen, if you hang around, you'll be waiting for hours— I’m booked solid tonight. I do have some time after I finish up at the hospital tomorrow, though, if you want to come in then. It’ll be pretty late, but I can make it in by seven,” Bridget offered.

Bridget noted a slight shift in Franky’s green eyes, as if she were taken aback— surprised, maybe, at the offer.

Franky bit her lip. “Nah, it’s fine— I’m good, actually—”

Bridget cut her off. “Can you make it, or not?”

Franky sighed and glanced sideways, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yeah, I can make it. Don't really have much of a social calendar these days, Gidget.”

Bridget smiled softly and nodded once.  “Good, I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”

Franky returned the nod, eyeing Bridget with a bemused expression of acceptance, as Bridget finally headed into her office.

**

Bridget’s car ride home that night turned out to be much less stressful, and much faster, than her ride to the office. There was no traffic, for one. But Bridget also found herself distracted. She was usually very good at leaving work, and her clients, at the office, but that night she couldn't seem to shake Franky Doyle’s face out of her head. The girl had some serious walls up, and that, coupled with the constant, teasing verbal deflections, signaled to Bridget that she had gone through serious trauma. From the doctor’s notes and their quick introduction at the hospital, all Bridget knew was that Franky was on that reality cooking show, and that she had multiple burn scars on her stomach. Well, that wasn't exactly true, Bridget realized. From their brief meetings, she could also tell that Franky was smart, and witty, and a decent person.

Something had made Franky run from wherever she had been this afternoon— of that Bridget was almost certain.

Bridget shook herself out of her reverie, realizing that she had somehow already made it home. She cut the engine and grabbed her bags, making her way into the house. She kicked off her heels and turned on the hallway light, illuminating the large, modern entryway. She did love this house, she had to admit. Well, she should, she realized and smirked to herself— she designed the damn thing. It was big, probably a little too big for one person; it was meant for two (or more) people to live in, after all.

Bridget grabbed a clean stem glass from the cabinet and poured herself some of the leftover white that had been chilling in the fridge. Her thoughts drifted to Julia for a second, but she shook them, taking a swig of her wine.

An hour later, Bridget checked her calendar one last time as she climbed into bed. Since when did she see clients outside of her normal office hours? Since she met Franky Doyle, apparently.

Bridget sighed as she put her phone beside her and switched off the lamp. She couldn't deny that she wanted to get inside that mind, and just hoped that Franky showed up tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

Franky glanced around the small office as Bridget shut the door behind them. It was… warmer than she expected. The walls were painted a light cream color, and a dark cherry wood lined the outer trimming. There were a couple of paintings hanging on the walls— a scene at dusk on Cable Beach, and Picasso’s “Bouquet of Peace”. Two green, cushioned barrel chairs sat towards the center of the room, and in the far left corner was a large desk that matched the cherry wood.

It was a stark contrast to the rooms she had been forced to visit in her teens; they were bleak and dismal, just like the shrinks’ tone of voice when they declared her defiant and broken.

“You can take a seat,” Bridget gestured towards one of the green chairs as she sat down in the other.

Franky crossed her arms over her chest. “Do I have to?”

Bridget shook her head. “No, of course not.”

Franky nodded, walking over to the window to peer down at the city landscape.

“You've got some nice digs here, Gidge. I'm impressed.”

Bridget let out an amused, throaty chuckle. “I’m glad it suits you.”

Franky turned around, casting her eyes downward towards Bridget’s gaze. There were those soft, blue eyes again; Franky thought she had never seen such blue eyes. This wasn't such a bad deal, she reasoned with herself. Leaving that hellhole for a couple of hours to come and stare at those eyes and listen to that voice? She would take it.

“Anything specific you want to talk about tonight, Franky?” Bridget asked.

Franky shrugged. “Nah. Like I said before, I'm not much of a talker.”

“And yet you're here,” Bridget countered.

Franky smirked. _Touché, Gidget._

“Well who says I wanna talk?”

Bridget raised her eyebrows but didn't budge, so Franky sighed.

“It just beats the alternative, that's all.”

Bridget nodded. “The alternative being?”

“The alternative being chained to a bunch of dickheads with absolutely no privacy.” Franky walked to the other side of the room, stopping next to the door, turning back around to face Bridget.

“Sounds stressful, there must be a lot of pressure, too.” Bridget leaned forward in her seat and crossed her legs.

“Nothing I can't handle,” Franky shrugged.

Bridget nodded. “I don't doubt it, a smart woman like you.”

Franky cocked her head and smiled, ignoring a twinge that registered deep in her gut.

“You think I'm smart, hey?” She inched closer to the psychologist until she was only a few steps from Bridget’s seat.

“Of course,” Bridget reiterated, moving her eyes up to meet Franky’s as the woman came closer. You're clearly very talented, with a lot of ambition, Franky. Not just anyone can land themselves in such a prestigious opportunity.”

Franky scoffed and took a step back.

“What you've done takes a lot of hard work,” Bridget added.

Franky narrowed her eyes at Bridget. “Yeah, and what have I done? You don't know! You have no idea what I've done.”

Franky immediately regretted the harshness of her tone, but she couldn't help it, and it was true, after all.

Bridget Westfall had no clue what Franky had to _do_.

Bridget sat, unfazed by the change in Franky’s demeanor. “You're absolutely right, I don't. Why don't you tell me?”

Franky dropped her arms from her chest and spread them wide, before slamming them back against her hips. She huffed, exhaling harder and louder than she had to. She forced a flash of anger to peek under her irises.

_See? I'm wild, Gidge. Untamable. Beyond your help_.

“I know what you're trying to do— poke me until you find out what's fucked up, and then try to fix it. Well I got news for ya— you're wasting your time.”

Bridget sat up straighter in her chair, her posture becoming more rigid for the first time, but her voice was still calm and even.

“Franky, that's not what I want to do at all.”

Franky shook her head and started to walk back across the room.

“You're not broken, Franky, you don't need to be fixed.”

Franky grimaced and sucked in a breath, grateful that she had turned away and was now facing the door. Bridget’s words sounded so fucking _genuine_ , and she didn't know what the hell to do with them.

She whipped around and shook her head. “Like I said, you don't know shit. And this?”

Franky swept her hand widely, gesturing around the room and towards Bridget. “This was a waste of time.”

“Franky, wait—”

But Franky didn't wait, and she flung open the door, leaving the office— and Bridget— in her wake before she could change her mind.

_________________

Bridget didn't try to stop Franky from leaving. She recognized the classic “fight or flight” response in the woman, and knew it would have been a futile effort.

Thirty minutes earlier, Bridget had been so relieved to see Franky, sitting by herself in the waiting area, when she arrived at the office. She was reading Virginia Woolfe’s _Orlando,_ and Bridget wondered how early Franky had gotten there.

_“Gee, Gidge, when you said private, you really weren't kidding.”_

Bridget had ignored the comment, hoping that Franky couldn’t see the unwelcome blush that had crept up her neck.

Franky walked into her office with her walls up, sure, but it wasn't until Bridget commended her intelligence and character that she fastened the barricades.

Bridget reckoned she should have backed off the subject as soon as she saw those shoulders go stiff, but she pushed further, and Franky bolted. It didn't surprise her. It was clear that running, to Franky, equaled safety; the response seemed to be deeply ingrained in the woman, and Bridget wondered how many monsters she’s had to outrun or outfight in the past.

A part of Bridget wished that Franky was mandated to see her. Because under these circumstances, she wasn't sure she would ever see Franky Doyle again.

_________________

_“You're such a piece of shit, Francesca.”_

Franky stood under the stream of nearly scalding water as her mother’s words came rushing through her head.

Her mother had been right. She _was_ shit. She slammed her palm against the tile as another silent sob wracked her body.

Bridget Westfall had sat there, with those kind eyes and damn hopeful smile, and genuinely thought that Franky was a good person. A _nice_ person. A _deserving_ person.

She wasn't any of those things!

Franky's outburst had no doubt proven to Bridget just how wrong she had been, and it was better off that way; She wouldn't have to learn later and be disappointed, just like everyone else in Franky’s life.

Franky wondered for a moment, why it bothered her so much that Bridget thought those things. She didn't even know the woman, not really. And Franky would have normally snatched up that opportunity and played Bridget like a fucking fiddle.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It didn't matter, did it?

People like Bridget Westfall were kind and good, and so they saw the kindness and goodness in others. Franky was hard and cruel, and she saw the world and everyone in it that way too. And the two just didn't mix.

_________________

On the other side of the city, Michael Pennisi winked at the young waitress as she refilled his wine glass. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

He looked across the booth at two of his bosses, eyeing them with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Okay, Mike, so what’s the deal?” John Marks, the older, stoic, executive producer questioned.

“Listen,” Pennisi began. “We all know ratings have been going down, but lucky for you guys, I think I have a way to pick them right back up.”

Anne Sullivan, the second EP, raised her eyebrows. “Okay, Mike, we’re listening.”

“Franky Doyle. She's not…. budging as much as I would have hoped. We’re not going to get her to crack just from screams and insults. We have to up our game.”

Sullivan started shaking her head in the negative, but Marks’ ears perked.

“And how do you suppose we do that, Mike?”

Pennisi smiled. “I met a guy who says he knew Doyle when she was a kid. He has dirt. You give me the okay, and it's ours.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief mention of a past sexual assault
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone for the continued feedback- and special thanks to Ashleigh for the best beta work around!

Franky exhaled and wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow. She continued to roll the wooden pin over the soft dough— slowly, methodically. This, she could handle; this, she was good at.

She tried not to think about how in thirty seconds, there would be a camera shoved in her face and she was expected to plaster on a fake smile and tell a fake story about some fake fuckin’ perfect little life.

There were fifteen contestants left, Franky included; apparently making it this far gave the show all rights to pry into your personal life.

Amy, who had just finished being interviewed, nudged Franky.

“Nice to have a day off from the pressure challenges, eh?”

Franky’s face twisted in disgust. “I'd rather suck dick than do this camera shit, Ames.”

“Well that’s an ironic choice of expression, Doyle,” Mike Pennisi interjected as he walked by, stopping just in front of Franky as a production assistant adjusted his mic.

Franky could feel her blood already start to boil. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Pennisi just shrugged, winking at Franky with a snide gleam in his eye that made her stomach drop. She recognized that look; she had seen it enough times in her life to know exactly what it meant.

_I have the power._

Franky straightened her back and forced all of her strength into rolling that damn dough.

“You’re doing the interview?” Franky bored her eyes into her task on the counter.

Pennisi smirked. “That a problem, Francesca?”

Franky shook her head as nonchalantly as she could muster.

“Nuh.”

The cameraman set up in front of Franky’s cooking station while the assistant producer gave Pennisi some notes.

Franky took a deep breath. Whatever this fucker was about to throw at her, she could handle it.

The first couple of questions weren't that bad; Pennisi seemed oddly unenthused, seemingly content to keep any biting remarks to himself, and so she forced herself to grin and bear the process.

“What’s your favorite dish to cook?”

“Tortellini en Brodo.”

“Who taught you to cook?”

“I taught myself.”

“You’ve worked in the food industry for a few years officially now, correct?”

“Yep. I was a cook at Hercules Morse before I came here.”

But then Pennisi paused, shifting his stance and licking his lips.

“But you’ve cooked for others before actually working in a restaurant, correct? And you were compensated not by money, but through an exchange of other... services?”

Franky pressed her lips into a thin, rigid line— her muscles tightening to hide her grimace.

_No fuckin’ way he would know that._

“Not quite sure what you're talkin’ about, Mikey.”

Pennisi smiled the biggest, toothy, smile, and Franky thought she was going to spew.

“Ah, come on, Francesca. Sure ya do! There's no need to be embarrassed.”

Franky narrowed her eyes, sizing him up. He looked like a smug poker boy about to throw down a set of aces.

 _Fuck_.

Maybe he was bluffing.

“Nup, sorry Mike— doesn't ring a bell.”

Pennisi cleared his throat and trained his gaze on Franky. It felt like he was looking right through her _._

 _I got you_ , his eyes said.

“When you were… eighteen, I believe— you had a little trouble paying the rent, isn't that right, Francesca? It's okay, no one’s here to judge.”

Pennisi chuckled at his own pun, and Franky wanted to spit on his mock patronization.

“You lived with a group of blokes, right, Francesca? They took you in?” Pennisi pressed.

Franky could feel her pulse thudding in her ears and her heart was hammering like a freight train. How the _fuck_ did this shitbag know this?

She kept her glare— trained on Pennisi— as hard as steel. She arched her shoulders and her chest, making her presence as large as possible.

“What do my living arrangements a near decade ago have to do with this fuckin’ show?”

Pennisi put his hands out, palms toward Franky.

“Aye, calm down, now, Francesca. You cooked for them, right? In exchange for rent? I'm sure you really sharpened those skills in the kitchen— wowed those boys’ taste buds and really honed in your culinary talents that we all get to enjoy today.”

Franky stayed silent, her fingers white-knuckling the slate edge of the counter top.

Then Pennisi smirked, and Franky knew he hadn't dealt his last card.

“I mean, I'm sure you honed some other more, erm, _private_ … skills as well, Francesca, as you didn't _just_ pay for your rent with your delicious meals, of course, but that doesn't really concern—”

“You need to shut up,” Franky softly seethed.

Her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared, as she tried to push down the knot that had tied itself at the base of her throat.

Pennisi ignored her, even as the cameraman looked over to the producers apprehensively.

“No one blames you, Francesca. You were basically an orphan, after all— had no one to show you the way.”

“You need to shut the fuck up right now, or I will slit your fucking throat!” Franky yelled out, immediately casting a deafening silence over the entire kitchen.

And there it was. As soon as the words were out of her mouth— as soon as she saw the slightest of coy smiles play on Pennisi’s lips before he altered his mask— Franky knew that he had won. This is all he fucking wanted.

Franky didn't waste any more time and pushed past the cameraman and towards the heavy metal doors.

She was down the hallway in a matter of seconds, her feet carrying her all the way to the gym on the other side of the studio; she didn't even realize that's where she was headed, but as soon as she got there, she ripped off her hair cover and went straight for the punching bag.

She didn't have gloves but she didn't care— she needed to feel this. Or, _not_ feel this— she wasn't sure which.

She started punching.

_1, 2_

Pennisi’s words rushed back. “ _I’m sure you honed in on more, erm.. private, skills, Francesca_.”

_1, 2_

Her brain was suddenly inundated with words she’d tried to block out her entire life.

Her mother’s— “ _you worthless, dumb piece of shit, you can’t do anything right!”_

_1, 2_

Her father’s— “ _I'll be back, Franky, I promise.”_

_1, 2_

Her old foster parent’s— “ _With outbursts like these, no wonder no one’s adopted you.”_

_1, 2_

The landlord of the apartment she crashed in when she was eighteen— “ _I own you, bitch. Now lay the fuck down so I can take what’s mine.”_

_1, 2_

She kept punching until the words in her head quieted, and the searing pain along her knuckles took over the messages in her brain.

Blood began to splatter along the tops of her hands and the bag.

The doors to the gym swung open.

“Franky, stop!” Amy yelled from the doorway.

_1, 2_

“Franky!”

_1, 2_

Franky ignored her and continued to slam her knuckles over and over again onto the hard surface. Her vision started to blur, and she zeroed in on the flashing stains of trickling red in front of her.

Amy disappeared, and Franky didn't care.

_1, 2_

She punched until her legs gave out and she crumbled to the floor, choking back a muted sob.

She folded her bloody hands on her knees and rested her head there, until Amy opened the doors again— this time returning with backup.

“Jesus, Franky, fuck— what did you do?” Amy’s eyes were wide as she knelt beside Franky.

“Fuck off, Amy,” Franky said as the familiar medics opened their first-aid kit.

The features in Amy’s face deflated, but she stayed put.

“I said fuck off!” Franky screamed.

Amy got her to feet slowly, looking at Franky like she had been the one sacked instead of the punching bag, but she complied and left the room.

Franky’s closed her eyes for a moment and sighed, before she glanced at the confused and wary faces of the medics and the assistant producer.

“Alright, alright. I know the fucking drill. Let’s go.”

_______________________

The cacophony of the hospital filled Franky’s ears with a muted, constant buzz. It was oddly comforting.

Eight stitches. That was the final call on the damage to her hands. Truthfully, Franky was surprised it wasn't worse.

The faceless doctor scribbled something on a notepad. “I want you to come back in a week, okay Franky?”

Franky pursed her lips and flicked her head upwards in silent agreement.

She didn't have the energy to do anything else; her limbs felt heavy, and the rage she had masked herself in had worn off, as usual. She was empty and tired, disgusted by the visual reminder of her self-destruction.

The doctor’s voice faded in and out. “You can take Panadol as needed, but I want you to call if that doesn't manage the pain.”

Franky nodded.

“Well alright then. I think you're set, Franky. Let’s stay away from those punching bags, eh?” The doctor chuckled nervously.

A biting retort played on the tip of Franky’s tongue, but she swallowed it. It wasn't worth it.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

Franky looked up at the older man for the first time since he entered the exam room, and the words left her mouth before she could stop them.

“Is Bridget Westfall here today?”

________________________

Bridget’s heels clicked and her arms swayed as she all but jogged down the hallway, towards the wing and room number that reception had relayed to her.

Apprehension settled low in her gut as she rapped on the door; she didn't have time to dwell on the feeling’s source, as it was immediately replaced with a desperate concern as soon as she entered the room.

Franky Doyle stood perched against the exam table, both of her hands heavily bandaged and swollen, blotches of red and purple peeking from the bits of uncovered skin.

“Well heya, Gidget, step into my office,” Franky greeted, wagging her eyebrows.

Franky’s mouth was tipped into a subtle smile, but her eyes were low and dark, reflections of shame tucked away in the corners.

Bridget took a couple of steps forward into the tiny room, careful not to invade the woman’s space too much.

She asked the first thing that came to mind. The _only_ thing on her mind in that moment, if she was being honest with herself.

“Are you okay?”

Franky blinked and bit her lip, as if she were thrown off guard. And then she shook her head and grinned.

“‘Course I am! You should see the other guy.”

Bridget sighed. “I want you to be serious.”

“I am,” Franky held her gaze, emerald eyes piercing through her blue ones.

A soft heat settled low in Bridget’s abdomen, and she shifted her eyes away from Franky, opting to focus on the plain, beige, hospital wallpaper for a moment before glancing back. 

A slight smile danced on her lips. “You know, I was hoping you would come back to see me, but at the office, Franky, not here.”

Bridget expected Franky to deflect her statement again with a simple retort; instead, Franky dropped her shoulders and stood up straight, audibly exhaling.

“I know,” she said, shaking her head rapidly in the affirmative. “I know, that's why I wanted to see ya. It's not why I came here, obviously.” Franky held her hands up for good measure, before continuing.

“But I did want to apologize to ya. You—.” Franky paused, her face contorting in thought as she took another breath.

“You made time for me, and ya wanted to help me, and I just shat all over that the other day. I’m… I’m sorry. And— thank you. I mean that.”

Franky nodded a final time at Bridget and crossed her arms, clearly assuming that this conversation was over. Bridget realized that Franky expected her to bid goodbye and wipe her hands clean; She absentmindedly wondered how many people had ever stuck around in Franky’s life.

_I don't have to go anywhere, you know._

But before Bridget could transfer her thoughts into actual words, she noticed a spot of dark red seeping through the bandage, just above Franky’s right pointer knuckle.

“Oh, Franky— you're bleeding through.”

“What? Oh, shit,” Franky pulled her arms apart and turned her hand upright.

Bridget went to the sink and grabbed a piece of extra gauze that the doctor had left out, and then cut two pieces of tape. She glanced at Franky and gestured towards her injured hand, silently asking permission to help her.

Bridget knew that if Franky could have somehow done this herself, she would have. But as it was, Franky held out her hand. Bridget took it, and as gently as possible, she wrapped the gauze and secured it along the split knuckle.

Her fingers brushed along the tops of Franky’s before she pulled them back.

“Better?” She asked, suddenly acutely aware of their physical proximity. She could hear Franky’s breath and see the tense muscles that spanned from her neck to collarbone, and she pulled back a couple of feet, casting her head downwards.

“Heaps, nurse Gidget,” Franky winked.

Bridget chuckled lightly and leaned back against the sink.

She pursed her lips and let a pause hang in the air.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Franky’s face dropped and she shrugged. “I let an arrogant shithead and a punching bag get the best of me.”

Bridget nodded, but didn't reply, allowing Franky the room to continue if she wanted to.

Franky picked at a loose piece of tape on her left hand. “They're just trying to create drama, up the damn ratings. They dug up some information on me and they baited me with it.”

A different kind of heat than the one from a few moments ago simmered in Bridget’s core. She _knew_ she fucking hated that show.  

She stayed calm, her voice coming out steady and even.

“Franky, if they're—”

“If they're what?” Franky stopped Bridget short. “If they're harassing me? So fucking what? I know how these things work, Gidge, and it doesn't end with the angry tattooed girl coming out on top. I need this show, and I've dealt with a lot worse.”

Franky paused, sighing.

“I can handle it,” she said firmly.

Bridget shifted her weight against the counter, keeping her eyes locked with Franky’s. She nodded, mostly in understanding that there was nothing she could say to change Franky’s mind.

“I know you can.”

Franky’s features softened at Bridget’s words.

Bridget took that a sign to continue. “It doesn't change the fact that you shouldn't have to, so please, Franky— let me help you.”

The end of Bridget’s plea came out in a rushed breath. She gulped, and the voice in the back of her head made its presence known, if only for a moment.

 _You're playing with fire_.

Franky seemed to study her then, assessing the offer. Assessing the earnesty. Assessing _her_.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Franky nodded.

“Okay.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Your hands look a lot better.”

Franky glanced at the small bandages lining her knuckles, as she dropped into the green barrel chair.

Bridget sat down in the chair opposite Franky. “How do they feel?”

Franky shrugged. “Doesn't matter as long as they're useable, yeah?”

Franky knew she was fucking lucky as hell, that her hands _were_ usable. She nearly beat them to the bone on that punching bag, but somehow escaped with only deep cuts and contusions.

But then again, maybe she just knew by now how to take herself to the very edge without completely tumbling over.

When she had gotten back to set on the day she wrecked her hands, she was immediately called into the production office. _“We can’t have this behavior on our set, Francesca. If it escalates any further, we’ll be forced to terminate your contract.”_

In other words, _we’ll poke and prod you for our own gain, but if you bite back, we’ll toss you out with the trash._

Franky had heard it all before.

And now, sitting in Bridget Westfall’s warm office, she took a breath and let her shoulders drop for the first time since her hands slammed against that bag, four days ago.

“Why don't you tell me about the last couple of days,” Bridget suggested. “How have things been going on the show?”

Franky shrugged. “Fine. Two people got eliminated last night— they totally bugged out with the pasta challenge. The one fucked up the dough right off the bat, poor girl didn't have a chance.”

Bridget hummed in acknowledgment. “Well, that's a shame, but I’d much rather hear about how _you've_ been doing.”

Franky cocked her head and clicked her tongue. “Oh would you? So _demanding_ , aren't we?”

Bridget sighed, glancing off to the side. A show of exasperation, no doubt, but Franky caught sight of the pinkish hue that outlined her cheeks.

Franky bit her tongue. “I don't wanna talk about me. There's nothing to talk about.”

Bridget rested her hands on the arms of the chair, keeping her posture open. “Oh, sure there is.”

Bridget paused then, but after Franky held her gaze in a silent challenge, she continued. “Okay, tell me about this last challenge, then. How did you do?”

Franky smiled. “Oh, I was ace, Gidge— I can beat and knead that dough with my eyes closed.” She winked at Bridget.

Bridget returned the smile. “What did you make?”

“Tortellini En Brodo.”

Bridget raised her eyebrows and nodded. “Sounds delicious.”

“It is— one of my favorites,” Franky said as she crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair.

“And why is that?”

Franky blinked, a gleam in her eye appearing.

“You ever hear the ancient myth about how tortellini got its name, Gidge?”

Bridget creased her eyes in thought. “Can’t say that I have.”

“Legend has it that the goddess of love herself once stayed the night at an inn in Castelfranco Emilia, Italy. The innkeeper was so taken by Venus’s beauty that he tried to spy on her through her door’s peephole. He could only make out the shape of her navel, but this little peeping Tom bastard was so inspired, he immediately rushed to his kitchen and rolled out some fresh egg pasta in the shape of what he saw. And voila, tortellini.”

Franky wagged her eyebrows. “Never thought pasta could be so sexy, eh?”

Bridget chuckled and shook her head, and Franky noticed that her legs were suddenly crossed.

Franky was glad she opted to give Bridget this version of her reasoning; she didn't need or want to explain why this particular pasta dish had been her favorite long before she ever cracked open a Greek mythology book.

“So it went over well with the judges, I presume?” Bridget shifted in her seat, resting her chin in her right hand.

“Ah yeah, ‘course.”

Bridget took a breath. “With everyone? No one’s given you a hard time?”

Franky scoffed. “Sure they have. It comes with the territory though, and like I said before, I can handle it.”

“And like _I_ said before, you shouldn't have to. Now, Franky, it’s a big step that you came back here, but I can't help you unless you let me,” Bridget reasoned.

Franky sighed. No one could fucking help her. Not even this pretty blonde enigma who looked at her like she was bathed in bright light.

“Gidget, I appreciate you wanting to help. Really, I do.” Franky paused and desperately hoped that Bridget knew she meant it.

“But there's nothing you can do.”

“Franky, you're right, to some degree— I can't change the situation you're in. I can't force you to leave the show and I certainly can't stop whoever the prick is who is harassing you.” Bridget took another breath.

“And I don't know what you've been through, Franky. And I’m not going to try to get you to tell me, and _then_ try to convince you that I understand. I won't do that. It wouldn't work. All I want to do is help you cope as best as possible in the situation you're in now. But to do that, I need you to work with me. I need you to trust me.”

Franky bit her lip. She usually would have balked at anyone who asked her to _trust_ them. Franky trusted people just about as far as she could throw them. Everyone had another agenda; the world was made up of liars and cowards, nothing more. So she studied Bridget, and she searched for the hint of the inevitable lie— the proof that this woman was just like the lot of ‘em; the proof was always there, you just had to know where to look.

It unsettled Franky to her core that she couldn't find it.

So Franky forced herself to turn her eyes hard. The contrasting softness in Bridget’s blue irises was too fucking much to handle. “You know how many people have claimed to try to help me? They didn't do jack shit. And they didn't want to help me, anyway— they only wanted to help themselves. And ya know what? You're no different. I'll play along with ya, Gidge, but in no time you'll conclude what all the others before you have, and I'll be on my way.

Bridget uncrossed her legs, leaning forward in her chair. “Well, we’ll just have to disagree on that, won't we?”

When Franky didn't acknowledge the rhetorical question, Bridget exhaled. “Okay. Let’s talk about what your anger looks like.”

___________________

Bridget pushed the spinach on her plate around with her fork.

_‘So demanding aren't we?’_

She felt her face flush as Franky’s words from earlier that day played in her mind.

Bridget knew herself well enough to acknowledge that she was attracted to Franky Doyle. Franky was gorgeous, and when her mind involuntarily wandered to the image of those green eyes and strong arms, a soft heat coursed through her abdomen.

But that wasn't the problem. She couldn't do anything about the simple chemical reaction, and she was an experienced professional— Bridget Westfall was way above letting physical attraction get in the way of doing her job.

The problem was, Bridget also knew herself well enough to admit that her attraction went beyond the purely physical. Franky Doyle was smart— smarter than most, in both intellect and instinct. She cased herself in a hardness of anger, but underneath those well-worn layers laid the purest forms of vulnerability and empathy. Bridget didn't have to know the precise details of the horrendous events that Franky had endured to understand, without a doubt, that she was one of the strongest people Bridget had ever met. And she craved to know more of this beautiful, strong woman.

Her mind’s ever-present logical, rational voice once again reared its ugly head.

_You’re playing with fire. In more ways than one._

Bridget knew she should suspend Franky's sessions, and recommend another therapist for her within the practice. She also knew she wouldn't.

She _couldn't_. She couldn't stand the thought of being just another tick on Franky’s tally of the long list of people who have let her down.

So the answer was simple— Bridget would push down her feelings and attraction and do her damn job. She owed that to Franky, and she owed it to herself. She could maintain control, just as in every other facet of her life.

“Earth to Bridge?”

Her brother’s voice snapped Bridget out of her reverie, and she looked at him across the table.

“Hmm?”

Adam raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean ‘hmm?’ You were off with the fairies for quite some time there, Bridgie. Didn't know I was such bad company,” he teased.

A guilty grimace spread across Bridget’s face. “Sorry. It's not you, I think I'm just tired.”

“Well you better get un-tired real quick, I'm only here for a couple weeks and I want to actually, you know, talk to and spend time with my sister,” he winked.

Bridget sighed, smiling. “Yeah, yeah.”

She knew Adam was right, and she was glad he decided to spend his two week vacation from Sydney back at home. The distraction was more than welcome.

Adam took a swig of his beer. “And just so you're aware, I know you better than you think. I saw that look of deep and longing reflection. You were thinking hard about something.” He wagged his eyebrows.

Bridget tried to suppress her laugh. “A ‘deep and longing’ reflection? Gee, now I know why _you_ are _not_ the psych in the family.”

“Hey!” Adam feigned offense and laughed with Bridget, but then his face turned serious.

“Were you thinking about Julia?”

Bridget almost snorted on her bite of salad. “No Adam, I was not thinking about Julia.”

____________________

Franky exhaled in frustration as she read the same line in her book for the fifth time. She couldn't fucking concentrate, and Virginia Woolfe’s words were not having their usual calming, escaping effect. Her mind kept drifting to the forty-five minutes she spent in Bridget Westfall’s office that day.

 _‘Let’s talk about what your anger looks like_.’

Franky had scoffed and played along, just like she agreed to do. She told Bridget that her fists shook with rage and she had the capability of destroying entire rooms. That she screamed and hit things, and that she didn't care about the pain.

_‘I’m just your friendly neighborhood tornado of human destruction, aye Gidge?’_

She expected to see the same look of pitying apprehension in Bridget’s eyes that everyone else looked at her with, when they discovered what she was capable of.

But Bridget’s soft eyes didn't even fucking flinch. She just sat there and nodded, like she _understood._  She didn't cast her eyes downward at Franky, like everyone else she had ever met in a position of power did. Bridget looked at her like she was worth no less— like she was just another human.

 _Equal_.

Franky threw her book down and crossed her arms, chewing on her lip.

This wasn't working. Franky jumped up from her bed and walked down the hall, knocking once on the fourth door. She didn't wait for a reply and threw it open, locked the door behind her, and pushed a surprised Amy down onto the bed.

Franky climbed on top of her and attacked her lips in a searing kiss before moving them to her neck. She tugged at the hem of Amy’s white t-shirt.

Amy moaned softly, trying to catch her breath. “Uh, Franky— not that I'm complaining, but—”

“Then don’t,” Franky nearly growled as she moved her hand down to lightly stroke the fabric between Amy’s thighs.

And twenty minutes later, when Amy pumped her fingers against Franky’s inner walls, she came with a fervor, hard and fast— Bridget Westfall still occupying all corners of her mind.

____________________

Bridget yawned as she pulled her t-shirt over her head and climbed into bed. She was over the moon that Adam was in town, and it surely meant more fun, but exhaustive, nights like this one.

Bridget settled into bed with her pen and the latest issue of the APS Journal, _Clinical Psychologist,_ but after nodding off a few times, she gave up. She marked her place in the journal and grabbed the TV remote instead.

Scrolling through the digital guide, her pulse quickened when the infamous reality show’s info flashed before her.

 _Don't do it_ , she warned herself silently.

It would be wrong. Unethical. She could only think of a million reasons why.

And even as she began to remind herself of those reasons, her fingers betrayed her logics and tuned to the channel.

Within five minutes, Franky Doyle was on her screen. She was watching a client, on TV, in her bedroom.

_Fucking hell._

Bridget’s brain screamed at her to turn it off. She didn't listen, instead keeping her eyes glued to the screen, nearly transfixed by the brunette wielding blades and preparing foods that she couldn't even name. The scene in front of her was chaotic, the contestants racing against the clock to finish whatever challenge they were assigned, Bridget presumed. The camera zeroed in on a couple contestants who were losing their cool a bit, and starting to crack under the pressure. Franky wasn't one of them, as she moved through the hectic bustle with apparent grace and ease. She was comfortable— _confident_.

Bridget couldn't help the surge of pride that filled her chest as two of the judges raved about Franky’s completed dish.

But the air left her lungs as soon as a stocky, red-faced man appeared on screen, making his way over to Franky. Bridget involuntarily shivered at the sight of his face. The man was eyeing Franky with a look of degradation— like she was a piece of meat that he was going to chew on and spit out. When he literally did _exactly_ that with her food, Bridget's pulse started to rise.

But when the man spoke, laughing at Franky in the process, her anger turned to nausea.

“Francesca, I've tasted week-old food better than this slop. Is that what you're going for? You wanna take this on down to the homeless shelter and see if they’ll eat it? You’d fit right in, anyway.”

Bridget watched Franky’s lips draw into a tight line, her eyes darkening and going blank. Bridget watched— helplessly— until she couldn't take it anymore and finally turned the TV off.

She turned over onto her side and squeezed her eyes shut, tears pricking the backs of her eyelids. She pressed her fingers to her temples and exhaled a rushed breath, trying to calm down and regain even a semblance of control over herself.

Bridget was absolutely not ready— and not willing— to admit that where Franky Doyle was concerned, maybe she never had any control to begin with.


	7. Chapter 7

Bridget strode off the elevator, paperwork and full cup of coffee in hand.

“Morning, Linda. How was your weekend?”

She was uncharacteristically buoyant for the ungodly Monday morning hour, and she convinced herself her mood was a result of a lovely weekend spent with her brother and old friends.

It absolutely had nothing to do with Franky Doyle’s name on her client schedule that day.

“Morning, Bridget. Aye, you know— same old, same old,” Linda responded unenthusiastically. “A few patient files were faxed in over the weekend, I put them on your desk.”

Bridget nodded and thanked her, staying to chat for a few minutes before heading into her office.

Linda wasn't kidding— a stack of files a foot thick sat next to her computer.

She thumbed through them, making mental notes along the way, until she got to a thin Manila folder in the middle of the pile.

_Doyle, Francesca_

_Patient History Report_

_Frankston Hospital and Offices_

_2 Hastings Road_ _  
_ _Frankston, Vic 3199_

_03 9784 7777_

Bridget sucked in an involuntary breath as she pulled the file. She had given Franky a request form to access her medical records weeks ago; it was a standard, obligatory practice, for obvious reasons, but Bridget made it clear that the files were not an official prerequisite. She never actually expected Franky to complete the request.

Hand on her hip, Bridget chewed the inside of her lip as she held the file, reading Franky’s name for the fifth time.

After a few seconds, she huffed and took the file to her desk.

 _For fuck’s sake, get it together Bridget. You have a bloody job to do_.

She opened the folder and flipped the first page.

It was formatted oddly; there was no personal or family history listed. The file seemed to be comprised of just four times that Franky had visited Frankston hospital or their outpatient offices. The first visit was the only item documented under her pediatric history— a hospitalization at the age of twelve. Bridget scanned the report, her eyes frantically moving over the heavy words on the page.

 _Fractured wrist, right. Fractured shoulder, right. Contusions, lacerations on thighs, buttocks, hips, back. Third-degree scald burn, right hip. Three (3) circular second-degree contact burns, lower back. Five (5) circular first-degree contact burns, abdomen and stomach_.

Bridget pressed the pads of her pointer fingers to her temples.

The report went on to detail the treatment Franky received for her injuries, as well as her discharge date.

_04/03/1995— discharge complete._

_Receiver of minor:  Child Protective Services, Vic, Officer Tina McKinley_

Bridget closed her eyes as her stomach churned, and she took a deep breath. She reminded herself that this information was not surprising; the initial report she received right before she met Franky—the one detailing the old burn scars lining her stomach— indicated that Franky had been abused in her past. But there was a stark difference between assumption and proof. And here, the proof lay right in front of her. Franky Doyle had been, at the very least, severely physically abused as a child, until she was finally hospitalized at the age of twelve and carted off to CPS.

Bridget absentmindedly wondered who had been responsible for getting Franky to the hospital that day.

The next report in the file, dated from June 2001, when Franky was eighteen, was much shorter; it mostly detailed stats from a simple physical examination, of which her results seemed normal. Franky also had an STD exam completed at the time, as well as received a number of immunizations. The results of her STD tests were marked as negative.

Bridget creased her brow, perplexed. This meant that Franky either had no medical care between the ages of twelve and eighteen, or that she didn't transfer her care reports when she decided to go back to Frankston Hospital as a legal adult.

Bridget could only hope that the latter were true.

The last two reports listed another test for STDs when she was twenty-two years old, (results were again, negative) and a visit at twenty-five for a bout of Strep Throat.

Bridget sighed and shut Franky’s file. She forced her muddled heart to take a back seat; she was more than intent on— and capable of— doing her job.

The short medical records only confirmed to Bridget what she had already gathered about Franky Doyle. She had been a young victim of severe abuse. The varying degrees of burns in the dated report, as well as the numerous still-present scars on her abdomen, indicated that the abuse was chronic. Chronic physical child abuse was almost always at the hands of one or more of the child’s main caretakers. Bridget couldn't be certain, but based on Franky’s deep-seated mistrust in authority figures, she most likely hadn't been cared for properly after entering the foster care system, either, let alone been _loved_. 

Bridget had a hunch about the reason for the multiple STD tests, but she didn't want to speculate just yet. What she knew for sure, based on those later exam reports— starting from when Franky was eighteen years old— was that Franky took care of herself. Her health was important to her, and when she had the means, she did everything in her power to ensure a future for herself.

Bridget didn't need, or even necessarily want, for all of the blanks to be filled in; Franky didn't owe her anything, and the last thing that Bridget wanted to do was push Franky too hard that she bolted again.

But Bridget had been doing this a long time, and she knew that the current harassment Franky was facing, coupled with her history, was a brewing storm waiting to explode.

Michael Pennisi wasn’t just some arrogant, thick-headed prick who thrived on gossip and attention— he was a predator, an experienced one at that, and that man knew what he was doing. Seasoned predators had a knack for choosing the perfect victim— the vulnerable ones who had been primed by previous abuse.

But Bridget reckoned that Pennisi severely underestimated Franky. Franky didn't fold unless she absolutely had to, and she had a _drive_ within herself that Bridget didn't often see. Franky had an unyielding hope for a better life, fastened securely by a instinctual motivation to survive and her cunning emotional and intellectual abilities.

But it wasn't just hope that drove Franky— it was also her anger. Anger that had protected and shielded her from other emotions that Franky previously determined detrimental to her survival.

Not to mention, she had every right to be angry as hell.

Anger and hope— the two were a lethal combination. If Pennisi kept pushing her, after all she had endured and all she had overcome, there were going to be severe consequences.

Bridget didn't care what happened to Michael Pennisi. But she cared about Franky, and there was no way in hell that she would let this prick destroy Franky’s future.

___________________

Franky heaved and flopped into the corner armchair.

“So what'd ya wanna talk about today, Gidget?”

Bridget smirked slightly, sitting down in her usual position across from Franky.

“Well, _you_ , preferably. That's what these sessions are for, Franky.”

Franky crossed her arms over her chest but kept her body relaxed.

“Nah. I don't feel like talking about me today. I want to talk about you.”

Bridget cocked her head, a smile playing on her lips as she narrowed her eyes.

“Nice try.”

“I'm serious, Gidge. You know so much about me, figure it’s time to return the favor, hey?”

Bridget sighed and glanced towards the window.

Franky knew that she should quit while she was ahead. Bridget wasn't in the mood for games, that much was clear. She didn't deserve to be played like a fiddle, either. But Franky wasn't oblivious to the way that Bridget looked at her— with flushed cheeks and dilated eyes, and unconscious smiles that drew soft little lines around the corners of her eyes.

Franky knew what those looks meant, and for the first time in her life, she didn't know what the fuck to do with them. The truth was, Franky would take this woman on top of her desk right this second, if that's what she wanted.

But Bridget Westfall was worth more than a quick fuck, and so she was worth more than Franky could ever give her. Bridget needed to understand that.

Maybe that’s why Franky kept pushing.

“Come on. Don't tell me you don't at least _wish_ this were a two-way street.”

“Franky,” Bridget warned.

“What? I see the looks, Gidge.” Franky paused, leaning forward in her chair. “Do you _usually_ date women?”  

Bridget huffed and her body tensed, and she shot Franky a look straight through her eyes that Franky couldn't quite get a handle on.

“Franky, please— cut the crap, yeah? Just stop it with the flirty intimidation factor, because it won't work. I don't like it, and I certainly don't respect it.”

Franky's features deflated then, and she sank back into the chair. She exhaled, tilting her stare up towards the ceiling.

Bridget’s reaction was what Franky was gunning for— one that told her that she pushed _just_ far enough to zap some of that awestruck gaze from Bridget’s eyes.

But Franky’s chest tightened in shame, and she had no control of the next phrase that left her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she all but whispered to the ceiling.

When Franky finally forced her eyes back to the center of the room, she noticed that Bridget’s eyes had gone soft again.

Bridget folded her hands and crossed her legs.

“Listen, Franky. I need to talk to you about something. I got your medical records faxed over to me this morning.”

Franky shrugged. “Well you asked for them, didn’tcha?”

Bridget nodded. “I did, thank you.”

She took a short breath before continuing. “Franky,  I think it would be remiss to not discuss how events in the past can have a profound effect on how we process the events in our present.”

Franky’s body went rigid as she began to shake her head in immediate indignation.

Bridget continued, “We don't need to go into detail, not until you're ready, but your childhood—”

Franky interjected before Bridget could finish her sentence.

“Are you fucking serious? You _told_ me that we didn't have to talk about that shit. It's over, it’s done with— what does it fucking matter?”

“It matters, because if you continue to keep it completely locked away, it can wreak havoc. Because it _won't_ stay locked away, Franky, I can promise you that— especially not under these  triggers—”

Franky bolted up from her seat then, slapping her arms down at her sides.

_No fucking way._

_“_ What fucking triggers? You think I don't know how to handle myself, is that it? That I'm about to blow some heads because of a few words from an arrogant shithead?”

Franky pierced her eyes into Bridget’s and regretted the action immediately— those blue irises only served as a reminder that she could, for once, just put down the fucking shield; she could lower her voice and soften her eyes, and deflate her shoulders.

But no, she _couldn't_. If she did, she would break— shatter into a million pieces.

Bridget spoke then, her voice even and firm. “Franky, I know that you can handle whatever is thrown at you, probably more than anyone.”

Franky raised her voice a few octaves and threw her arms in the air, willing the fire to pour off of her.

“How would you fucking know!”

Bridget raised her voice too, but kept it steady. “Because I _know_ , Franky. You’re kind, and smart, and a _good_ person, and you didn't deserve any of that shit that you had to face in the past, do you hear me? None of those scars define you, Franky.”

Franky could feel the hot liquid begin to gather behind her eyes; she needed to stop this _, right now_.

She spun around in her place near the door and smacked her palm into the bare wall. The entire room vibrated, and Franky was sure that the sound of the impact had made its way into the waiting room.

 _Good_.

But Bridget simply shrugged her shoulders just the tiniest bit, keeping her posture completely relaxed and open.

So Franky bored her eyes in Bridget’s, one more time, and willed her eyes to darken as she narrowed her gaze.

“Don't think just because you read a few words on some worthless medical report, that you know _anything_. You asked for that report, so I gave it you, and now you're fucking throwing it in my face.”

“Franky—”

“Nah. Just give it up, Gidget.”

Franky’s voice wavered as she felt her eyelids pool with moisture; all she wanted was the floor to swallow her up right then and there.

“We’re done.” The words nearly got caught in the back of her throat, and Franky swiped at an unwelcome tear that trickled down her cheek.

Franky drew in a shaky breath. “Can I go?”

Bridget tightened her grip on the arms of chair—the light had finally dimmed from her eyes, and Franky couldn't stand it and had to look away.

“You can do as you please, Franky. You're not a prisoner. Just know you can always come back.”

Franky could have sworn she heard Bridget’s voice hitch with emotion on the last few syllables, but she didn't have time to dwell on it.

She barely made it out of Bridget’s office and to the elevator, before the emotion of her own that she tried _so fucking hard_ to push down, bubbled up in her throat. As soon as the heavy metal doors closed, a deafening sob rippled through and out of Franky’s body; her shoulders heaved and she crumbled to the floor, her head resting against the cold slate wall.

Three more sobs escaped before Franky attempted to catch her breath. She swiped at her blackened eyelids and ran her hand through her hair. She took one last shaky breath as the elevator dinged, signaling the bottom floor.

Franky donned her sunglasses and exited the elevator.

_I’m sorry, Gidget. I’m so sorry._

_______________________

Laughter and high, screeching voices traveled from the common living area all the way down the hallway. Franky could hear every fucking sound from her room, and she wished they would shut up, just this once.

Amy had been around to see if Franky wanted to come out and hang, but she just flatly shook her head and told Amy not to bother her for the rest of the night. Franky felt guilty about that— she was a great lover but a terrible friend, and she knew that Amy deserved better.

But Franky didn't have the energy to work on that— not tonight. She felt like shit. There was a lump in her throat the size of a golf ball. Every room felt just the tiniest bit smaller than normal. There was a rock pressing down on the center of her chest, and no matter how hard she tried, she just wasn't strong enough to lift it off.

She fucking blew it. _Again_.

Bridget cared about her, truly _cared_ , and she was such a fucking coward that she couldn't handle it.

Franky exhaled and rapidly rubbed at her closed eyes, hoping to erase Bridget’s face from her mind; the blonde seemed to have taken up residence there ever since Franky wrecked her hands.

It was better this way in the long run, anyway, Franky tried to remind herself. She wasn't a rose, she was a thorn— and she would surely prick Bridget sooner or later. She already had.

There was another knock on her door then, and Franky sighed in exasperation.

“Amy, I told you—”

A voice that didn't match Amy’s came through the door, before Franky had a chance to finish that sentence.

“Phone for ya, Doyle. Line 2.”

The fuck? Nobody ever called her, especially now that she didn't even have access to her own mobile.

Franky made her way down the hall and to the phone room, thankful that it was empty when she walked in.

“Hello?”

“Franky, it’s Bridget.”

Franky sucked in a breath, unsure for a moment whether she was hearing things.

“Listen, I know you might not want to hear from me now, but I— I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't follow-up with you… to make sure you’re okay.”

Bridget’s voice, above all else, sounded tired. Franky imagined her huddled at her desk, relentlessly working to better the lives of her clients. Or maybe she wasn't— maybe she was at home, the fatigue in her voice only brought on by a nice glass of red and a good book. She hoped it was the latter.

Franky tried to speak, but her words got caught in the back of her throat.

“Franky?” Concern replaced the weariness in Bridget’s voice.

“Sorry, yeah. I'm here,” Franky managed to respond.

“So are you? Okay?” Bridget repeated.

Franky subconsciously lowered her voice, and moved the phone closer to her mouth. She was damn glad that no one else was around, but she couldn't be too careful.

“Gidget, I'm fine. You don't need to be worrying about me,” she said softly.

Bridget was silent for a moment, and then Franky heard her sigh. “I do.”

“I _was_ worried about you,” Bridget continued. “And that's why I brought up your medical records today, which wasn't right, Franky. I’m sor—”

“Nah, stop. Please, Gidge. You were just doing your job.”

Franky tried to think of something else to say, _anything_ , to keep this beautiful voice in her ear for just a little longer.

“Thank you,” Franky breathed into the phone.

“For what?”

Franky responded with another question. “Did you mean it? What you said before. That I could come back?”

Franky shifted in place and wrapped her free arm around her stomach. She suddenly felt bare— _exposed_ , despite that fact that no one else was physically around.

“Of course.” Bridget’s voice was so goddamn gentle.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Mm?” Bridget hummed.

“Would you do this for any of your clients? Follow up this late at night?”

Franky’s tone was apprehensive— curious and soft; the complete opposite of the teasing bites she rolled off her tongue earlier in the day.

Franky could hear Bridget breathing, but otherwise the opposite end of the line stayed silent.

Franky smiled; she finally began to push that rock off her chest that had been crushing her insides.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two of the other contestants round the hallway, heading for the phone room.

“I'll see you, Gidget. Thanks for calling.”

____________________

Bridget hung up the phone, placing it back in its cradle.

The only light that shown was the small lamp atop her desk— everyone else at the office was long gone. She hadn't wanted to go home. Her mind kept drifting to Franky, and she hoped that if she buried herself in mundane work, that she would be distracted enough to get the brunette out of her thoughts. 

She was wrong, obviously; she spent the last hour picking up and putting the phone back down, with Franky's contact information lying in front of her.

And now she felt lighter, certainly, after hearing Franky's voice.

But that was the problem, wasn't it?

Bridget sighed, dropping her head into her hands.

She was so screwed. So completely, utterly fucked.


	8. Chapter 8

_30 more seconds and then whatever is on your plate better taste like gold melting in my mouth!_

Franky wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow. The kitchen bustled around her, a slew of profanities flying by amidst the hurried clashing of metal.

She took a deep breath, attempting to slow her beating pulse, as she admired her work.

Tempura vegetables.

She had been saving this one.

Not many could make _perfect_ tempura. Not many could get the batter _exactly_ right, with a texture just light enough to form a golden crisp. Not many knew how to get the water just cold enough to help the batter stay thin. Not many could keep the oil _just_ hot enough to prevent grease.

But Franky could.

So when Pennisi shot her a malicious wink, she didn’t even flinch.

“You think you nailed it this time?”

Franky nodded.

 _I know I did. Not even you can take this one away_.

Except he did.

“Tempura vegetables? That’s a new one. I haven't heard that one before.”

Franky’s heart dropped about two stories while Pennisi stood there, mocking her. Belittling her. Humiliating her.

_How could she be so stupid?_

She was never going to win this thing. They wouldn’t let her— it was rigged from the start. She was on this show for one purpose, and one purpose only. And it wasn’t for her fucking cooking.

“Try, try this one,” Pennisi played, pointing to the dish next to hers— the one that he just raved his arse off about— that Franky _knew_ wasn’t anything you couldn’t find at some four-star chain.

“It’s okay. I’ve had better.”

_You will not see me break._

But Pennisi wasn’t done with her yet. Not even close.

“Maybe you should stop this smartass attitude of yours, and just start trying to be smart. Because you keep serving up this sort of slop, I’m gonna have to keep spitting it in the bin.”

Franky’s chest seized. She blinked and glanced downward, trying to cloak the hint of vulnerability in her eyes.

_You will not see me break._

“Francesca, I don’t know if you have the intelligence to keep going.”

_I’m not stupid!_

Pennisi waved his arms around, gesturing grandly like a silverback gorilla asserting dominance. Asserting status.

“At this stage of the competition, I expect it to be better. Maybe you should stick to something that’s not beyond you—”

Franky’s heart was pumping blood through her veins so fast that she could hear every _thump_ at the base of her ears. It was almost loud enough to drown out Pennisi’s snarls.

Almost, but not quite.

“Like, um, eggs.”

He repeated the last word, growling the accentuated pronunciation.

“ _Egggggs_. You can say eggs, Francesca. Eggs!”

Franky’s upper lip twitched. She clenched her fists tight against her chest. Her mind flashed then, she couldn’t help it.

_“Francesca, make yourself useful for once. Make your mummy some eggs.”_

_“But I don’t know how.”_

_“Well then figure it the fuck out. Dumb piece of shit.”_

Franky took a deep breath and twisted her jaw.

When she zeroed back in on Pennisi, his back was to her. She couldn’t hear him— the thumping and buzzing in her ears was so _loud_ , but she saw him signal to the cameras to cut.

Franky turned to the left, willing her jelly legs to carry her just the few feet over to her work station. Her hand shot up to her mouth. She thought she was going to vomit.

_Breathe._

Her fingers twitched. She wanted to give him something to _really_ spit on.

_Keep it together, Franky._

But then the fucker was next to her again, in her space— so close that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

“Hey, Francesca, keep up this dumb act and we will make some beautiful television.”

Her brain shut off then. She didn’t think.

 _Flight or fucking fight_. She picked fight.

“Hey, Mikey.”

Her balled fist shot out from her body and made contact with Pennisi’s nose. He grunted at the impact and stumbled backward.

It felt good.

 _Stop, now,_ her brain pleaded with her. Or was it her heart?

But she couldn’t.

“Psycho bitch!” Pennisi yelled, blood beginning to drip down to his lip.

Franky wound her right arm back and lunged forward again, swinging so that her fist slammed into the side of his face. The force knocked him off balance, and he fell into the counter, the front of his face bashing with a _clink_ against a glass mixing bowl. Pennisi toppled to the ground, landing with a hard thud onto his back.

Franky barely registered the plea of “ _Stop!_ ” that came from somewhere in the center of the kitchen. She could have sworn she heard whistling and a “ _Get him, Franky!_ ”, too, but that could have just been coming from her own brain— everything else she was hearing surely was.

Whereas thirty seconds ago her brain was completely silent, now it wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

_Dumb, dumb. You’re so dumb. You’re a loser. You couldn’t even keep your fists down, so you better just fucking finish the job._

_No, stop._

Franky turned around and the sizzling of the hot oil on the stove enveloped her vision.

Her tempura could be good for one thing.

_Just do it. Burn him like you’ve been burned._

Franky wrapped her hand around the handle of the skillet.

But something made her pause. Her brain went silent again, only to rev back up a millisecond later.

It was a different voice. Not Pennisi’s, not her mother’s. Not her own.

_I don't doubt it, a smart woman like you._

_Are you okay?_

_You’re kind, and smart, and a_ _good_ _person, and you didn't deserve any of that shit that you had to face in the past, do you hear me? None of those scars define you, Franky._

Bridget’s soft voice rang loud and clear in her ears, and her hand loosened its grip on the skillet. Franky leaned her weight into the counter, wiping across her mouth with her left hand. The background noise of the anxious kitchen slowly made its way into her peripherals.

More profanities spewing alongside the blood from Pennisi’s mouth. Someone yelling they were going to get the medic.

Franky snapped her wrist to the right, moving the sizzling oil over to a cold burner before she could change her mind. She inhaled and exhaled before glancing towards Pennisi, still in a heap on the hard floor.

She expected the rage that reflected off of her in the man’s eyes; the seething, hot, aggression that she saw peeking from his arrogance every single day. But there was something else— something she didn’t expect to see, but something that she was just as familiar with.

Humiliation.

She beat him at his own game.

“Doyle, the production office— _NOW_ ,” came a booming voice from the kitchen doorway.

Franky nodded mutely, acknowledging the call. If she was going down, at least she was going down on her terms. Not his.

_You will not see me break._

_______________________

“We could have you brought up on assault charges! We _should_ , as a matter of fact.”

Franky sat in the production office, arms crossed, blank stare drawn on her features.

_Just play their game for a little longer._

“Yeah, but you won’t,” she shrugged.

Marks, the white-haired, burly, executive producer, narrowed his eyes at Franky and his face turned an even deeper shade of red.

“And what makes you so sure of that?” He seethed.

Franky opened her shoulders in her seat and took up as much space as she possibly could.

She didn’t have any power, but if she was able to convince Marks that she did, maybe she could get out of this.

“Because you wouldn’t risk counter-harassment charges being brought against your precious show.”

Marks laughed. “And you honestly think that people would believe _you_? You honestly think you would win this? Our lawyers would rip you apart, girl.”

Franky leaned forward in her seat. “That may be true, and you’re right, you and your bullies would win the suit— you know that. I know that.”

Marks narrowed his eyes. “What’s your game, Doyle?”

Franky laced her words in indifference. “Don’t have one, unlike you psychos.”

She let a pause hang in the air before she continued.

“If I bring ‘conspiracy to commit harassment’ charges against you— which is fucking _more_ than warranted— you’ll walk away with your money, but your reputation will be shot. All credibility gone.”

Marks crossed his arms and bore his dark eyes into Franky’s. And then, finally, “It’s up to Mike. For now, get the hell outta here. Don’t stir up any more trouble, do you understand me?”

Franky nodded and made her way to the door. “Until you want me to, right?” She muttered under her breath.

If Marks heard her, he didn’t show it, and Franky shut the door behind her as fast as she could. She rounded the nearest corner; the coast was clear and she all but collapsed into the wall.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Cortisol pumped through her veins.

What the fuck was she thinking? She did the one thing she promised herself she wouldn’t, _she used her fists_ , and now she was done. She hated herself. So fucking weak.

If she were brought up on assault charges, or even just _dismissed_ from this god forsaken show, she wouldn’t make it anywhere else.

Could she go to prison for this?

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Franky leaned her forehead against the wall and brought her hand to her mouth, attempting to catch her breath.

But she wasn’t afraid of Pennisi, or Marks, or even _prison_ , as much as she was of herself.

She shut her eyes, and she might as well have been holding the handle of the sizzling skillet again.

_She nearly doused a man in boiling oil._

She was a monster. A violent monster who probably _deserved_ to be in prison.

She was as bad as her mother.

Franky dry-heaved into her hand.

“Franky?”

Franky snapped her head in the direction of the timid voice.

A girl named Marah, one of the four production assistants, stood about twelve feet away.

Franky wiped her face and stood straighter. “What do you want?”

Marah cleared her throat. “I— uh. Sorry, um— Ann wanted me to tell you that you could ring your therapist, if you wanted.”

_What?_

“I can do that now?”

Marah nodded.

Whether Ann, the second EP, actually cared about her well-being, or just wanted to cover the show’s arse, Franky didn’t care.

“Yeah, thanks, kid. Guess that’s a good idea, huh?”

_____________________

Bridget’s heels clicked along the tile hallway floor, and she only hoped that her walk lended her enough “cool and calm” to pull off the facade.

Her pulse had risen from the moment she recognized the number on her phone— the same number that she had dialed just days prior.

_“Bridget, it’s me. I— something happened. On the show. I did something.”_

_“Are you okay?”_

_“I don't know.”_

_“I’m coming_ ,” Bridget had answered.

She didn’t give Franky time to argue.

“Franky’s just through here,” the young woman— Marah, Bridget thought she said her name was— gestured towards a room that resembled an office space.

“The rooms in here are private. Franky’s on the left. Tell her to dial my extension when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll walk you back.”

“Great, thanks,” Bridget nodded.

With Marah out of sight, Bridget knocked gently on the left-most door, and entered.

There was Franky, standing next to a writing desk in the center of the room, looking at her with a mix of muted awe and disbelief.

“Gidget, how the fuck did you weasel your way in here?”

Bridget gestured vaguely and flicked her wrist lazily into the air. “Don’t worry about that.”

She put her hand on her hip, shifting her body weight.

“Are you okay?” She asked for the second time in only an hour.

Franky nodded, crossing her arms.

Neither made a move to bridge any of the gap between them, and neither spoke. Bridget was acutely tuned to the space and silence that Franky needed, and she wasn’t going to take either from her.

After a minute, Franky dropped her arms and sighed. “Did they tell you?”

“No. I don’t know anything else other than what you said on the phone.”

It was true.

Franky’s features contorted then, first a million muscles scrunching towards the center of her face, a tight frown playing on her lips. Then all at once, she choked out a rushed breath and clutched at her chest; grasping and poking at her own flesh, willing herself to stay silent, but finally surrendering to the two words she’d been so desperately trying to hold in.

“I’m sorry.”

Bridget strained her ears, unsure if she had heard right.

“For what, Franky?”

Franky didn’t answer.

Bridget took a breath. _It’s okay. She’s okay. Go slow._

But Bridget didn’t want to go slow. She didn’t want to put on her fucking psychologist hat and do this by the book.

What she _wanted_ was to cross the room and wrap Franky in her arms. Hold her. Tell her that whatever she did, it would be okay. Bridget would make sure of that.

What she wanted, was what she couldn’t have.

Franky’s swollen, opaque eyes met hers. She threw her arms up in the air and let them slam back down against her hips.

“I could have _killed_ him!”

Bridget didn’t blink. “Who, Franky?”

“Pennisi! I could have done it. I could have, Gidget.” Franky jutted her pointer finger towards Bridget.

“You said I was  _good_! But I’m not!” Franky cried. “Do you know how fucking close I was? Huh? My hand was _wrapped around_ a skillet filled with scorching oil! He was just laying there, and I wanted to _hurt_ him. I wanted him to suffer so fucking much!”

Tears had long since broken through the barrier, and were now flowing freely down Franky’s face.

Bridget wondered for a millisecond how Pennisi ended up on the ground. But she realized she  already knew. The prick had finally driven Franky to the brink, that’s how.

Bridget tried to put the other pieces together as fast as her brain would allow. A hot skillet. Pennisi on the ground.

 _Burn_.

Bridget thought about the scars that lined Franky’s body, and the hundreds of others that weren’t visible to the naked eye.

Of course.

She worked as fast as she could.

“Franky, you _are_ good.”

Franky scoffed. “Just STOP! Don’t you get it?”

Bridget raised her voice only an octave. “Yes! Franky, how could anyone blame you for that anger? You’ve been burned your whole life, and that man’s been throwing your face in the fire for months now.”

Franky eyed her incredulously. “So, what, I get a ‘commit serious assault for free’ card? What the fuck, Bridget! It’s not an excuse!”

Bridget shook her head rapidly. “No! No, you’re right— it’s not an excuse. You are as responsible for your actions as the next person, Franky, and don’t you see? You _are_ taking responsibility!”

Bridget watched Franky’s features take in the words. Her eyes relaxed, and she bit down on her bottom lip. Her breathing was rapid, and Franky looped her arms up above her head.

“I attacked him, Gidge. I punched him, twice, square in the fucking face. And it felt _good_.” Franky choked on the last word, her eyes welling up again.

“Of course it did,” Bridget reasoned softly. She would never verbally advocate violence, but that man deserved what was coming to him more than anyone.  

Franky looked up toward the ceiling, attempting to contain the second round of moisture in her eyes.

“They could press assault charges.”

Bridget nodded. Yes, they could. It wouldn’t be right, and it certainly wouldn’t be fair, but Bridget knew as well as Franky did that _fair_ didn’t matter. It never did.

Franky wrapped her arms around her stomach and bowed her head, gasping out a silent sob.

“It’s not me. I don't want that to be me.”

Something in Bridget’s chest broke, and she was suddenly standing not fifteen feet, but fifteen inches, from Franky. She didn’t remember moving.

“It’s not you,” Bridget whispered.

And it was supposed to be wrong, her brain was telling her. To be here, this close to Franky— to a _client_. But it didn’t _feel_ wrong. And what Bridget was about to do was unethical, and selfish, but she would be kidding herself if she didn’t admit she’d crossed that line a long time ago.

So Bridget opened her arms, cautiously— she only wanted Franky to know it was an _option_. She didn’t have to hold _herself_ anymore.

But Franky was in her arms in a second, and when her face made contact with the crook of Bridget’s neck, the dam broke. Franky heaved and shook over and over again, and Bridget stroked her hair and rubbed her back, and just held her, as damn close as possible.

Bridget moved her lips close to Franky’s ear. Her voice came out in a whisper— it was as much as she could manage without breaking, herself.

“Hold tight, yeah? Just hold tight, Franky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for continuing to read-- means the world! Special thanks to Ashleigh, especially on this one.


	9. Chapter 9

The rain poured down with a fury, a thousand tiny droplets crashing and bouncing off of the car’s metal exterior.

Bridget barely noticed.

She had pulled into the studio car park over fifteen minutes ago, and still couldn’t bring herself to get out of the damn car.

The blue lights on her dash flashed, each minute seeming to tick by faster than the last. 8:20, it read; she had phoned the production office that she would be there at 8:30. Franky was already waiting for her by now, no doubt.

Bridget closed her eyes, with tense muscles gripping the top of the steering wheel.

The images that played on the backs of her eyelids were the same every time.

Shaking muscles. Quiet, rippling sobs. Strong, trembling arms wrapped around her shoulders and neck. _Holding on._

She heard the vulnerable echos.

_“It’s not me. I don’t want that to be me.”_

Bridget was consumed. Completely, utterly out of control, consumed.

How did this happen?

She couldn’t think straight, and if she couldn’t think straight, then she was no help to anyone— especially not to Franky. And she could face putting herself at risk, but not Franky. Never Franky.

So she only had one choice.

________________________

“Gidget, you better be careful, or I’m gonna get used to these house calls,” Franky winked as Bridget entered the small, makeshift office.

It was the same room they were in just a few days ago. Franky was standing in the same spot, next to the writing desk. At first glance, she looked the same too— her hair was pulled back, brown fringe framing her face, and she was dressed for the day in her chef’s uniform.

But there was a lightness about her, evident in the way her green eyes twinkled when Bridget walked into the room— evident in the smile that _just_ reached her eyes.

Bridget wanted to soak up the sight in front of her; she wanted to bottle it up, and keep it forever.

 _Selfish_.

Bridget took another step into the room and crossed her arms over her chest. “Um, Franky.”

“Um, Gidget,” Franky repeated the ominous greeting. She smiled even wider, and Bridget’s chest tightened in guilt.

“Listen,” Bridget began, glancing down for a moment at the ground.

 _Coward_.

She picked her head back up, and looked Franky square in the eye.

“There are a couple of other wonderful psychologists within the same practice I work, and I think that it would be best for you to see one of them.”

Bridget watched as the words sunk in; Franky’s smile flipped and she creased her brow in confusion.

“What? No. No,” Franky began to shake her head. “I don’t want to see anyone else. I want to see you.”

Her tone and gentle features had not hardened yet, and Bridget’s heart cracked at the innocent plea.

_I don’t want to leave you, Franky._

“I know,” Bridget tried to keep her voice as strong as possible. “Believe me, Franky, if there was a way that I thought this… _professional_ relationship could work, I would do everything in my power…”

Franky’s face continued to contort, and she mirrored Bridget’s stance and crossed her arms over her chest. She blinked, and her eyes dimmed.

Her mouth set itself into a tight line, and Franky gave Bridget a once-over. The confusion dispersed from Franky’s features, and was replaced with cold indignation.

“This is about the other day, isn’t it? About what I told you I wanted to do to Pennisi.”

“What? No, no of course not— Franky, it’s got absolutely nothing to do with that.” Bridget kept her voice calm as she took another step closer to Franky.

And Franky took a step back.

Bridget held her hands up, palms out, in surrender. _I won’t come into your space._

“Franky just please, listen—”

Franky smirked and interjected, “Listen to what? Huh? I hear ya loud and clear, Gidge, no worries!”

Crushed sarcasm laced Franky’s words, and Bridget’s brain screamed at her to fix this.

Franky continued, the volume of her voice rising. “I opened up to you; I did what you _wanted,_ but you’re still gonna run, eh? Because you don’t know what the _fuck_ to do with me.”

“Franky, _no_. That is the furthest thing from the truth. I... listen. It’s _my_ fault, okay? I fucked everything up. Not you, _me_ . And I can’t _help_ you anymore, not in the way you deserve. There’s too much at stake now,” Bridget tried to explain.

But she _couldn’t_ explain, and that was the problem. Franky deserved the truth, but how fucking unfair would that be? Unfair, compromising, unethical. All of the above.

“You’re terrified of me, is that it?”

“Jesus, no, Franky.” Bridget knew there was desperation in her voice, and she couldn’t help it.

 _No, please don’t think that. Anything but that_.

“Then what _the fuck_ is it?” Franky spat, her voice rising another two octaves.

Bridget stared into Franky’s eyes as she bit down on her lower lip— willing herself to restrain the words that were on the tip of her tongue.

_Don’t do it._

Franky’s body stayed rigid, her muscles hardened into a protective shield. But her eyes shifted, and Bridget watched as the mask over her green irises faded. As if they were just too tired to keep up the act along with the rest of her body. They were soft, pleading. Pleading with Bridget to just be honest with her.

And Bridget knew then that Franky needed that, more than anything. She deserved honesty, and she deserved vulnerability. She deserved it all.

So Bridget took a shaky breath and her voice came out in a shallow, low rush.  “All I think, day and night, is you.”

Bridget watched anxiously as the words settled over Franky. Her muscles relaxed, and the corners of her mouth tipped upward just the slightest bit.

She took three steps towards Bridget, leaving a few feet still in between them.

“So you want to fuck me.”

The way the sentence rolled off of Franky’s tongue was so matter of fact— devoid of emotion, as if she were announcing the most obvious conclusion from Bridget’s words.

And Bridget realized that if she said yes, it would carry the opposite message than she intended. To Franky, _fucking_ didn’t ever signify anything deeper.

So she answered the only way she thought she could.

“No.”

The muscles in Franky’s face twitched, perplexed. She took another step closer to Bridget, finally dropping her arms from her chest. Franky studied her, eying her with an intensity that shot a bolt right through Bridget’s abdomen.

And then a loud rapping sound pierced Bridget’s ears. For the first second, it sounded so far away— so _foreign_ — that Bridget didn’t understand it. Her brain caught up, and she realized that someone was knocking on the door.

Bridget took a hurried step back the same time that Franky did, and she managed to utter a “come in” that sounded relatively normal.

Marah, the PA that Bridget recognized from the other day, peeked her head in. “Hey, Franky? I’m really sorry— there was an issue with the film for the last prep shot and we need to reshoot.”

When neither Franky or Bridget made a move, Marah cleared her throat tentatively. “Um, right now. They’re shooting it now.”

Franky exhaled an exasperated breath, but nodded.

_No, it can’t end like this._

“Uh, Franky—,” Bridget began.

“It shouldn’t take long at all, maybe fifteen minutes tops, so you can come back,” Marah hurriedly explained.

But Franky shook her head. “Nah, it’s cool. We were just finishing up anyway.”

And with that, Franky was out the door.

______________________

 

The pan softly sizzled as Franky threw in the thyme and rosemary. She dipped a spoon in the mixture, blowing on it before bringing the liquid to her lips.

More salt, she decided.

The kitchen was quiet, the only light coming from overhead Franky’s work station. She couldn’t sleep; she tried running on the treadmill, but after an hour, her mind still raced faster than her legs could carry her. She needed something to _do—_ something to keep her hands and brain busy, to distract her mind. The thought of knocking on Amy’s door had made her stomach churn, so here she was, testing out a new recipe for a garlic and herb marinade.

It worked at first, as she focused on the precision of each ingredient. But soon enough, the regret consumed her. The guilt. The pleading look in Bridget’s eyes as she walked out the door— as she left her, _again_.

Franky tossed a teaspoon of ground pepper flakes into the pot.

_All I think, day and night, is you._

_So you wanna fuck me._

_No_.

What the fuck did that mean? Was Bridget _in love_ with her?

She couldn’t be.

But Franky didn’t stick around long enough to find out. She checked out the first chance she got. She was a coward, and whatever the answer was, she didn’t deserve Bridget in any capacity, anyway.

It was for the better, Bridget stopping her sessions. She wouldn’t continue with anyone else though, obviously.

She would take care of herself, and forget about Bridget. Forget about her gentle eyes. Forget about her soft, golden hair— how it smelled of vanilla when Franky had inhaled on a sharp sob against her neck. Forget about how it felt to have Bridget’s arms wrapped around her— like she could have stayed there forever, and been content. _Safe_.

Franky shook the memories, determined to get them the fuck _out_ of her.

She was inside her head, so deep within her own thoughts, that she didn’t hear the metal door slowly click open. She didn’t hear the footsteps from the across the room. She didn’t hear anything but the buzzing in her head and the sizzling of the pot in front of her.

She didn’t hear anything, until the intruder wanted her to.

A deep voice startled Franky, and she whirled around, the wisps of hair on her arms and neck standing up.

“Hey, Doyle,” Pennisi slurred.

How long had he been standing behind her? Had she really not heard him come in?

Pennisi was not six feet from her, the bruises from her attack barely visible under the shadows that danced across his face. She could see his eyes were dilated, though, and unfocused.

Panic began to bubble deep within Franky’s gut. Why the fuck was he here in the middle of the night? Pennisi swayed just the slightest bit, and Franky knew without a doubt that he was drunk.

 _Fuck_.

“I was just about to leave, actually, so—”

Franky made a move to walk past him, but Pennisi moved with her, effectively blocking her path from the door.

 _Shit_. Franky knew that she was strong, but the man was a head taller than her and easily twice her weight. Drunk or not, she wouldn’t be able to overpower him.

“What do you want, Mike?”

Pennisi clutched his heart, feigning offense. “I’m surprised you even have to ask, Doyle. Isn’t it obvious?”

He winked at her then, and Franky felt a chill run up her spine.

“You didn’t play fair the other day. I want a redo.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Please note a warning for references to sexual assault

  _“You didn’t play fair the other day. I want a redo.”_

Franky’s heart thumped and cortisol shot through her veins. She stared at the man across from her, looking for any signs that he was bluffing— that this wasn’t as bad as her body was trying to tell her.

_Fight or flight._

She didn’t see any of those signs. His eyes were so dark, black almost. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, and perhaps the severe dilation was just a result of his inebriated state.

But Franky’s gut told her otherwise. Pennisi narrowed his eyes and swiped the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip— like a lion who had just cornered his prey.

_Fuck, THINK!_

Franky glanced towards the metal doors across the large kitchen. If she could distract him enough to make it past him, she knew she could run.

Pennisi laughed then, and Franky shifted her eyes back to him. A set of silver keys dangled from a chain around his pointer finger.

“Nowhere to go, Doyle. But you wouldn’t run anyway, would ya? You wanted to fight me so bad, here’s your chance!”

Franky was sure the color drained from her face then. Her legs twitched, her body in survival mode.

 _'Go!_ ’ They screamed. But there was nowhere for her legs to take her.

She couldn’t run, and she couldn’t fight. But she was smarter.

She took a deep breath and donned her mask.

“Mike, listen, I ‘m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for what I did. You’ve been…” Franky swallowed.

“...you’ve been so good to me, given me so many opportunities— I’m really sorry, Mike. And I’ll make it up to ya, yeah? I promise. So why don’t we just go talk somewhere, aye?”

Pennisi took another step closer to her, and Franky could make out the deep purple shading that covered his nose and lined his eyes.

She glanced around her surroundings, only for a millisecond. She catalogued what she could use. Her fists weren’t going to cut it.

A steak knife three feet away, next to the sink. Onion peeler to its left. The burners were on.

_Fuck, the burners were on!_

“You’re right about one thing, Francesca. You’re going to make it up to me.” Pennisi grinned, and a chill shot up Franky’s spine.

And then he dropped his face, and scowled. “You’re so pretty for a bitch.”

Oh, did Franky recognize that scowl. An expression of fury that thrived on power— on ownership. Her mother wore it well, as did the men who used her body while she lived in that disgusting flat. All lowlifes who used their only position of power to degrade, to humiliate— to abuse. Victimizing the weak made them feel strong.

Pennisi was just like them! And when Franky attacked him, when she knocked him to the ground in front of everyone— his bosses, his colleagues, his subordinates— he was humiliated. In his twisted mind, in that moment, Franky had reversed the roles. And now, he was here to take ownership back.

But Franky wasn’t weak. And she would be damned if she let him take her without a fight.

It all happened so fast.

Pennisi lunged for her, and Franky skirted to the left; he narrowly missed his intended grasp on her elbow, and instead crashed into the corner of the prep table. Franky took her opportunity and kneed him from behind in the groin.

_Hit his weak spots, nothing extra. Buy time._

Pennisi growled at the impact. “Come ‘ere, you cunt.”

Pennisi _finally_ noticed the steak knife resting on the end of the table— _the dumb fucking prick_ — but his coordination was off because of the alcohol, and Franky was faster. She beat him to the weapon, but as soon as her palm wrapped around the handle, Pennisi was on top of her. He wrapped his fist around Franky’s hand from behind, and twisted, squeezing her bones together.

Franky might have been faster, but Pennisi was still stronger, and she cried out as she heard a _crunch_ , and a searing pain shot through her wrist, all the way up to the tip of her thumb.

She held onto the knife, and slammed her elbow into his gut with her free arm.

The force knocked Pennisi off balance only for a second, but enough so that his grip loosened on Franky’s screaming wrist and thumb. Her hand was still miraculously clenched around the knife, and she jerked the weapon, angling it down and behind her, towards Pennisi’s waist.

Franky could wield a knife behind her back no problem, she just never thought she’d actually have to do it. She knew exactly how much pressure to apply to _just_ puncture the skin enough to force Pennisi to let go of her completely. If she could get it a little furth—

Franky felt the barrier and pressed; Pennisi yelled out, dropping his hold on her hand. He jerked his body and grabbed at his hip, where the knife had sliced about four centimeters into his skin.

When Pennisi abandoned his grip over Franky’s hand, she was forced to drop the knife— she couldn’t grip the blade on her own. She hissed and clutched her swollen limb against her chest.

 _Fuck_. It had to be broken. She couldn’t move it, and a deep line of purple was starting to form from her wrist to mid thumb. She couldn’t fuckin’ fight with a broken hand!

Pennisi gave Franky’s state a once over, a malicious grin spreading across his face. It reminded Franky of the look her mother used to give her after she pressed her cigarette butt into soft, ten-year-old skin.

“You’re done,” Pennisi snarled.

He lunged for her for the second time, and she bolted for the door. A last ditch effort, but what the fuck else could she do? She made it to the other side of the room, and her heart sank as she jiggled the door handle. Pennisi was right behind her, and Franky tried to fight him as best she could— she got a few punches in with her good hand, but her efforts were futile, and eventually Pennisi got hold of her swollen hand. He squeezed, and Franky screamed.

He pulled her by her wrist all the way back across that fuckin’ room, and Franky couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Pennisi threw her up against the prep table, and pressed his body into her backside. He kept hold on her wrist with one hand, and unzipped the front of his own pants with the other.

 _No_. No, no, no, no.

She put all her strength into flailing her body weight.

She was so fucking _DONE_ with people thinking they owned her. She was _DONE_ being used and abused, and she would _kill_ this fucker if he went any further. She would kill him, and she meant it.

Pennisi slammed her head into the cold slate of the table, and leaned over her, his mouth stopping inches from her ear.

“Ah, come on, Francesca. I know you know how to take it! You let all those men have their way with you when you were so young, tell me you don’t remember how to stay still and take it like a good girl?”

Franky barely heard him. She was staring at her forgotten marinade, still simmering on the hot burner. The handle was about two feet away, to her left— closest to her uninjured hand.

Pennisi shoved Franky’s sweat pants down over her hip, and she concentrated.  She would have approximately two milliseconds to take her shot.

When Pennisi moved his hand off her hip, Franky yelled out, mustering all of her strength to lunge the two feet over to the pot’s handle. Pennisi still had a strong grip on her broken hand, so he jerked with her, grunting at the sudden movement.

When Franky felt her hand wrap around the handle, she didn’t have time to think; she thrusted the pot over her shoulder and the marinade splattered over Pennisi’s face and neck. He cried out and released his grip, allowing Franky to break free. Pennisi covered his face, and Franky dove for the pocket of his jeans, where she had seen him stuff the key.

The sound of the pounding on the door across the room didn’t register in Franky’s ears. Nor did the door being kicked open, five seconds later.

_Get the key. Get out._

“Franky!”

Franky felt the tips of her fingers reach jagged metal, and she grabbed the keys.

“Franky! Franky!”

She didn’t hear the female voice.

She bolted— and ran head-first right into a familiar chest.

Amy gripped Franky’s arms to steady her. Franky blinked, and saw two security guards yanking Pennisi to his feet. Her brain slowly registered the scene surrounding her— the new people, the bright lights, the open door.

_She survived._

But then she remembered that she stuck a knife in Pennisi, and she just poured hot liquid all over his face.

Amy was talking to her, but her voice sounded a mile away.

Would they believe her? They never have before.

Franky tried to focus her eyes. One of the guards stood between Franky and Pennisi, blocking most of her view of him. But she could see the deep red outlining the waistband of his pants, along his hip.

His fucking dick was still out.

A wave of nausea washed over Franky.

The second guard knelt down next to her. “Medic’s on their way, aye? The police and your producers, too.”

That was the last thing Franky heard before black encased her vision, and she passed out.

_____________________

Consciousness came and went. Bits and pieces of voices, and movement, and images.

She felt her body being lifted onto a flat surface— a stretcher, maybe. Multiple strange voices were speaking rapidly. She caught some words, here and there.

Morphine. Immobilize. Rape kit.

Wait, _no_! She didn’t need that!

She tried to tell them. _That bastard didn’t touch me_. But she couldn’t speak— she couldn’t get the syllables from her brain to her mouth.

The next thing she heard was an incessant, shrill beeping; it wouldn’t stop.

_Shut that fucking thing off!_

She could tell that hands and wires and tubes were poking and prodding, but she couldn’t _feel_ anything.

_Get off!_

And then her mind went dark again, and it was quiet. It was finally _quiet_.

Images played in her mind, and she knew they weren’t real, that it wasn’t actually happening— but Pennisi’s breath was on her again as he yanked her pants down. She looked for the marinade on the burner but it wasn’t there, it wasn’t fucking _there_! And he won, he fucking won, and there was so much _pain_.

A dull ache thudded from her wrist to the tip of her thumbnail. A light buzz flitted through her head. There was something on her hand— the one that _wasn’t_ throbbing like a motherfucker. She couldn’t place it, but it was soft, and warm, and it felt fucking amazing.

“Franky? Franky, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

Franky eyes fluttered open. Everything was blurry, and she was dizzy, and she just wanted to go back to sleep.

But then she saw those blue eyes, and she knew she had to be dreaming, but she didn’t care. Gidget was gone, she left—but she was _here_ , so maybe Franky could just stay here for a little while longer too.

“Don’t leave. Don’t leave me.” Franky didn’t recognize the groggy and hoarse sound of her own voice.

And then she felt a hand on her forehead, gently brushing the hair out of her face.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

_God she loved that voice._

_“_ Rest, Franky. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

But she didn’t want to rest, she wanted to be with Bridget, even if she wasn’t real.

Franky tried to fight it, but there was a soft hand drawing circles on her knuckles, and she couldn’t help it— her eyes shut again, and everything went dark. 


	11. Chapter 11

“Bridget?”

One of the nurses peeked her head in. “Trolley’s making its rounds, you want anything to eat?”

Bridget ran a hand through her tangled ponytail and sat up straight in the stiff armchair.

“No, Sarah, I’m okay for now. Thanks.”

The nurse smiled. “She’s looking good, you know. Vitals are strong, and the drugs should be wearing off now. Should be any time,” Sarah added as she closed the door again.

Bridget sighed, shifting her eyes to the woman lying in the bed next to her.

The shrill sound of her phone had woken her up promptly at seven that morning. She had been confused, sleep lingering over her like a hazy fog. She wasn’t due at the hospital that day, and she thought it was a mistake they had rang her.

But it hadn’t been a mistake.

_“Franky Doyle was brought in with multiple injuries, she just got out of surgery. You are the only contact in her file— she listed no emergency contacts during her last admittance. Do you have that information? We are attempting to contact her family.”_

Bridget wasn’t sure how long it took her to utter the words. _“I’ll take care of it. Can I have her room information? I’ll come and see her.”_

Bridget was at the hospital by 7:45. She offered a vague, off-handed explanation to the head nurse as to why she was at hospital on her day reserved for private client sessions.

_“She doesn’t have any family. I’ll sit with her. What happened?”_

Her heart was hammering in her chest and her skin felt clammy; she prayed to the universe that her poker face was finely tuned.

Franky technically wasn’t under Bridget’s care anymore, meaning she wasn’t privy to her medical information. But the doctors and nurses didn’t need to know that. Bridget couldn’t help but huff to herself— what was one more ethical boundary crossed?

Sustained concussion. Broken right hand. Multiple contusions and lacerations. Sexual assault.

Bridget’s ears rang, and she felt the protein bar she had stuffed down on her ride over beginning to come back up.

No. _Please_ , no.

Bridget barely heard anything else. Something about the police needing Franky’s statement when she woke. Media had already been alerted— they were ringing off the hook for information, apparently.

The next few hours passed in a daze. The nurses made their rounds, and a doctor that Bridget didn’t recognize came in once to check on Franky.

Bridget held Franky’s hand and talked to her. She told her that she was there— that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Franky’s heart sped up a few times, about once per hour; her monitor would sound off and shriek in rapid _beeps,_ and Franky would usually accompany it with a mumbled string of words. The words were nonsensical most of the time, except for once.

_“Don’t leave me.”_

Oh, baby. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.

And now the clock was nearing noon; she hadn’t left Franky’s side all morning.

Despite the drug-induced plea, would Franky even want her there when she woke? As far as Bridget knew from their last interaction, Franky wanted nothing to do with her. _Jesus_ , that was only yesterday, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

Bridget took a deep breath, and pressed the pads of her pointer and middle fingers to her temple.

That fucking bastard. That _monster_. Bridget could feel the rage simmering low in her gut. Mike Pennisi was responsible, of that she had no doubt in her mind. Had he cornered her? Had he threatened her? Did he torture her?

Even without having seen the defensive wounds that lined Franky’s broken skin, Bridget knew that Franky put up the fight of her life. She was a _survivor_ — the fight was in her blood. But Bridget’s heart tightened and clenched when she thought of how frightened Franky must have felt.

Frightened. Violated. Numb.

Bridget remembered those feelings like it were yesterday.

She was barely cognizant of the tear that has trickled down her cheek. _She should have been there, goddamnit!_

 _“_ I’m not dead, Gidget.”

Bridget jumped in her seat at the sound of the hoarse voice.

Franky’s eyes were open, and the slightest, bemused smile played on her lips.

Bridget hastily swiped at her cheek, and she mirrored Franky’s expression— she couldn’t help it.

“Hi.”

Bridget’s voice came out barely above a whisper, a result of the emotion still tucked in her throat.

“Hi, yourself,” Franky just managed to get the words out before she broke into a coughing fit, gasping for air. Bridget quickly stood up and poured a glass of water, extending it to Franky. Franky attempted to reach for it with her right hand, but only lifted her arm halfway before wincing.

After taking it with her left and gulping down nearly the entire glass, Franky eyed her casted, swollen hand.

“Fuck, I forgot about that.”

Bridget cringed, taking the glass back from Franky to refill it. “Are you in pain?”

“Honestly? Hurts like a mother.”

Bridget nodded, biting her lower lip. She wished there was something she could do other than just stand there like a fool.

Franky glanced towards the ceiling before looking back at Bridget.

“What time is it?”

Bridget checked her watch, even though she knew damn well what time it was. She had only been checking it every few minutes— waiting, _willing_ Franky to open those green eyes. The doctors and nurses all said she was fine, but Bridget needed to see for herself.

“Just past noon.”

“Shit,” Franky muttered under her breath. Then her eyes darted over the room again. “How long have you been here?”

Bridget took a breath, exhaling on an exaggerated sigh through her lips. _Hmm, let me think._

She didn’t have to think, but she didn’t know where she stood. She wasn’t sure if Franky would want to know that she rushed here as fast as possible, barely having time to throw on her clothes and brush her teeth. That she had broken every speed limit and cursed every red light.

 _Just be honest,_ a voice spoke up in the back of her mind.

“The hospital called me around seven this morning, because I was in your file. I got here not long after that.”

Bridget could see Franky’s wheels turning, putting the pieces together. Then Franky suddenly crossed her arms over her chest and contorted her face; she rested her thumb against her nose for just a second, covering her features. Bridget had picked up on that expression weeks ago— Franky was on the defensive.

“Franky—”

Franky interjected. “Gidge, I’m fine, so you should go. You don’t have to be here, just because there’s no one else in my fuckin’ file. You have patients today, yeah? I’m not one of ‘em anymore, remember? Just go, I’ll see ya ‘round.”

Bridget sat back down in the chair next to the bed. If Franky wanted her to leave, that was fine— she wouldn’t argue. But she wasn’t going to leave just because it was _easy_ . She wasn’t about to let Franky think that she didn’t _want_ to be here. There was nowhere for Franky to go this time, either; the ball was in Bridget’s court.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

Franky looked at her for a second, her brow slightly creased, arms still crossed. Her expression shifted again.

“What, then? Don’t tell me ya missed me, Gidge.” Franky smirked playfully and clicked her tongue.

Another—albeit, lighter—defense mechanism.

Bridget made sure her eyes were holding tightly onto Franky’s when she answered.

“I did... I _do_ ,” she breathed.

Franky dropped the flirtatious expression, green eyes furiously darting in place over Bridget’s face.

Bridget’s hand was in Franky’s again, and she wasn’t quite sure how that happened. Only a couple of feet stood between them, their gazes level.

Bridget took another breath, her voice low and delicate.  “I was so worried about you, do you know that? Do you know how worried I was when I got that call this morning? Franky, I’m so sorry, I—”

Franky reached up then, and swiped her thumb along Bridget’s jaw before resting her palm against her cheek.  

Bridget’s breath hitched as her abdomen filled  with warmth.

Franky gently tugged Bridget’s face closer to her own, until their lips and eyes were only inches apart. Bridget closed her eyes on reflex.

“I’m fine,” Franky said softly. “I’m fine, I promise.”

Franky’s thumb delicately grazed Bridget’s bottom lip; a sigh escaped from the blonde’s mouth as an electrical current shot through to her core.

She didn’t want this to stop, but it couldn’t go any further. Not yet. Not like this, with Franky lying in a hospital bed, not ten minutes after having woken up from a drug stupor. She had just been through a major trauma, for God’s sake!

Franky’s fingertips danced along her jawline. She couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact— that would be it.

“We can’t,” Bridget sighed, forcing her eyes to flutter open, but kept her gaze downward.

“I know, I know.” Franky’s voice was so soft, so gentle, and Bridget wanted nothing more than to wrap herself in that voice, and never leave.

_No, you don’t know._

“Not yet, okay?” She tried to make Franky understand. She wasn’t done, not by a long shot.

There was a knock on the door then, and they both quickly pulled away from each other. An involuntary shiver ran down Bridget’s spine from the sudden absence of warmth.

The same nurse from earlier, Sarah, poked her head through the door. “Oh wonderful, Franky, you’re awake.”

Franky nodded once, raising her eyebrows and pulling her lips tight. Bridget just barely held back a snort at Franky’s _‘no, really?’_ expression.

“How are you feeling?”

“My hand hurts,” Franky replied flatly.

The nurse moved to check Franky’s drip. “Anything else?”

“Nuh,” Franky shook her head.

“Okay, that’s good,” Sarah turned towards Franky. “Listen, I have some things to go over with you, so Bridget…” she shifted her gaze over a couple of feet.

“If you just want to step outside for a minute?”

Bridget nodded and made a move to stand up, but Franky shook her head again. “She can stay.”

Bridget stopped then, and searched Franky’s eyes.

_Are you sure?_

“Yep,” Franky communicated the answer to Bridget’s silent question.

The nurse was clearly thrown. She knew who Bridget was to Franky, at least on paper. It was unusual, that was for sure, for Bridget to even be here, and it probably sounded off some kind of professional alarm. But if Sarah had anything to say about the matter, she kept it quiet.

“I— uh, okay, sure.”

Sarah asked Franky all the usual questions. _Do you remember what happened? (Yes) Do you remember how you got here? (Not really.)_

She did her best to fill Franky in on the blanks, before she explained the treatment and procedures she had gone through in hospital.

“Your hand was broken in two places, but the operation went extremely well, and the surgeon expects you to make a full recovery. He’ll be in to explain more to you about that in a bit.”

The young nurse hesitated, glancing towards Bridget before continuing.

“We did a rape kit examination, Franky, based on the observations made at the scene. It’s standard if assault is suspected and you’re unable to consent due to consciousness. We’re just waiting on the lab resul—”

Franky didn’t let her finish. “There won’t be any fucking results. I tried to tell the ambos, nobody fucking touched me. So the only people who have been up my vag in the past day are _you_ guys.”

Bridget didn’t realize she had been holding her breath. Franky sounded so firm, so strong— Oh god, _Pennisi didn’t rape her_?

She had never known such relief.

When Bridget forced herself to concentrate on the rest of the conversation, poor Sarah was still fumbling over her words, unaccustomed to Franky’s bluntness.

“Yes, well— you never know, there could be traces,” the nurse reasoned.

“There won’t be,” Franky retorted.

Bridget wondered if Franky was absolutely sure of that, or if her confidence was simply a result of being chewed up and spit out by the system so many times in her life.

Sarah nodded, content to leave that part of the conversation. She relayed the message about the police coming in soon, and informed she had messages from her producers. She advised Franky not to talk to the media.

Fucking hell, this was a mess.

Bridget caught sight of Franky’s tense, left-handed grip around the metal railing of her bed, and the way her lips had set into a hard, tight line.

_Don’t worry, I’ll be here._

The nurse continued. “There’s another matter that needs to be discussed, Franky. We were informed of your living arrangements, on the show. Obviously, you won’t be able to return…”

Franky shrugged. “Fine by me.”

Bridget glanced off to the side. But it _wasn’t_ fine, it wasn’t fucking fair. She assumed the entire production would be shut down now. And even if it wasn’t, Franky still couldn’t go back. She couldn’t compete one-handed.

“Do you have other arrangements you can make, Franky? If not, the hospital can help you out with that, until you’re able to,” Sarah offered. “If the doc likes how everything looks, you’ll probably be able to be discharged within a day— we can set you up in a bedsit.”

Oh, _no_. No fucking way. Bridget knew those bedsits— they weren’t bedsits, they were halfway houses. Bridget had been trying for months to get the hospital to sponsor another public housing unit, to no avail. There had been three rapes, that they _knew_ of, at these particular units, just in the last few months.

Franky wasn’t staying there.

Bridget hadn’t heard Franky’s response to the housing offer, but on her way out the door, Sarah said she would grab the forms. Franky must have agreed.

Well why the fuck wouldn’t she? Where else was she supposed to stay on such short notice?

When the door clicked shut behind the nurse, Bridget couldn’t help herself.

“Franky…”

Franky shook her head.

“Don’t wanna talk about it, Gidge. And you’re not even my therapist anymore, so you can’t try to make me, either.”

Bridget sucked in a breath. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Franky shifted her eyes to Bridget’s, but stayed silent. Her version of ‘ _okay, I’m listening.’_

“It’s about the bedsit,” Bridget continued. “You don’t have to go there.”

She paused then, and this time, Franky didn’t try to interrupt.

“Stay with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't thank you guys enough for your continued support in reading and commenting on this. You all provide such motivation, and it's endlessly helpful. THANK YOU! 
> 
> Since I don't know if I'll be able to post another chapter before next week, due to the holiday here-- Iet me just give the biggest happy birthday shout out now to my wonderful beta. Have the BEST day/week/year of your life, Ash!!


	12. Chapter 12

Franky felt like the air had been sucked out of her body all at once, as if someone had taken a pin to her lungs.

_“Stay with me.”_

She blinked at Bridget. Surely she had misheard her. Misheard...or misunderstood.

But, no, she hadn’t.

Bridget flicked her right hand into the air, and shifted her body weight onto her hip, standing in place next to Franky’s bed.

“I just mean, Franky, that it’s an option. I have the room. I don’t want you to think…”

Bridget trailed off then, and Franky found her voice.

“Think what?”

The question was honest, but her tone came out harsh… bitter, paired with a sharp bite. Franky inwardly cursed herself.

Bridget didn’t seem to mind, and she took a breath and opened her posture. “I don’t want you to think that this offer comes with any strings attached. It’s a housing solution, plain and simple. No expectations. I—”

Bridget paused then, taking another shallow breath. “I just want you to be _safe_.”

Something twisted inside Franky then. She relaxed the muscles in her face and swallowed hard, keeping her gaze fixed on the unwavering blue eyes in front of her. The blue eyes that had, only moments ago, been a mere inch from her own. Eyes and lips and soft skin that had made a thousand butterflies take flight inside Franky’s stomach.

Franky knew, had learned her entire life, that offers like these always came with strings.

Money, sex, power.

Any deal Franky had ever made came with at least one of these conditions.

_Pay, or give me your body and your agency._

Nothing was ever free. No one was ever sincere.

Except, Bridget _was_ . And she was dangling a _safe_ place in front of Franky, offering it to her on a silver fucking platter. And fuck, Franky wanted to reach out and take it so _badly_. But it was too good to be true, it had to be. And if it wasn’t, then Franky would surely fuck it up, somehow. She knew she would.

So she folded her arms and shook her head. “Nuh, Gidge. I couldn’t put you out like that. You know me, I’ll be fi—”

Franky’s sentence was cut off by the door to her room being forcefully swung open, followed by a very shrill _“Franky!”_

Before she knew it, Franky was enveloped into a suffocating bear hug, red hair splaying across her neck and face.

 _Shit_.

“Jesus, Amy, let me breathe.” For the second time in just a few minutes, Franky regretted the harshness of her tone. The girl practically saved her from being raped, and she owed her a debt of endless gratitude. But Franky felt the guilt rise up in her throat; it honestly wouldn’t have mattered to her if it had been Amy banging down that kitchen door, or the fuckin’ janitor.

Amy let her go, pulling back just far enough that Franky caught Bridget in her peripheral. Bridget had her eyes cast downward towards the floor, a hand resting on the back of her neck.

She silently begged Bridget to look at her, but before she could ever catch her eye, lips were suddenly being pressed against her own. Franky hardly had time to process it; she barely had time to form a complete thought, except that these were not the lips she wanted, not the lips she _craved_. The lips that were pressed against hers now had been there probably hundreds of times before, but now they felt wrong— a farce. Franky felt bile rise in the back of her throat and she used all of the force in her left hand to shove against Amy’s sternum. The kiss broke, and Amy looked at her bewildered.

But Franky barely saw the woman still invading her space; instead, her eyes frantically searched for those blues again, a few feet away.

_It’s not what you think._

But Bridget was already turned towards the door, saying something about giving them privacy.

“Gidget, _no,_ ” Franky shook her head.

But Bridget just tugged on the hem of her jumper and nodded, “I’ll be back, I have some calls to make… and I‘ll see when the doctor’ll be in.”

That inviting, close-lipped smile still played on Bridget’s mouth, and her eyes shone bright; there were no obvious signs that the events that just took place affected the blonde in any way. But when she spoke, her voice didn’t have the same lightness as it usually did— it was heavier, filled with _something_. 

And then, Bridget was out the door before Franky could protest any further.

Franky felt her eyes turn hard, as she finally looked at Amy. A familiar rage began to simmer in her gut.

“Why did you do that?” she spat at Amy.

“Do what?”

Franky hissed in a grimace, throwing her good arm up and slamming it back down against her thigh.

“Franky, I— I just wanted to see you. I’m so glad you’re okay, I came as soon as I could. The house is a mess— production has been shut down and—”

“You shouldn’t _be_ here,” Franky interjected. “You don’t _need_ to be here, okay?”

Amy’s face fell then, and her shoulders sagged, her eyes blank as if Franky had just slapped her across the face.

Franky groaned in frustration, the familiar feeling of guilt rearing its ugly head again.

“Ames, listen.” She paused, looked Amy square in the eye. “Thank you.” Franky nodded for emphasis. “Thank you for finding me last night. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t gotten help, and I don’t know why you were roaming the halls at two am, but—”

“I was looking for you; you weren’t in your room,” Amy stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 _Right_ , of course.

“Well, thank you. I owe ya, I really do.” Franky paused again, letting the words sink in.

“But what you want? What you want from _me_? I can’t give that to ya,” Franky shook her head and pursed her lips.

“Franky...” Amy started.

“Ames, it was fun. It was. But it’s over, okay? The show is over, and so is this.” Franky gestured to the space in between them.

Amy reached for her hand then, and Franky yanked it away as if she’d been scorched.

Amy backed up about a foot, hurt lingering obviously in her eyes. She shook her head numbly, as if attempting to clear her mind of Franky’s acidic response. She then blinked once, stood straight, and stared Franky directly in the eye.

“Fine.” Amy’s voice was suddenly hard. “Fine, Franky. But god, I can’t believe you. I cared about you...genuinely cared. And you just _used_ me!”

Franky scrunched her face in a deep frown, looking away. She knew it was true.

Amy scoffed. “You’re shit, Franky Doyle. Good luck to whoever your next _fuck_ is. I feel sorry for them.”

Franky kept her arms crossed and lips set into a hard, tight line until Amy was gone. When the door clicked shut, she exhaled harshly and rubbed her left hand furiously across her face.

Her heart felt like it had plunged fifty feet.

She _was_ shit. She used people. Chewed ‘em and spit them back out when she was done— when they didn’t suit her needs anymore. Was she even capable of anything else?

There was a knock at the door again, and Franky’s head shot up. Her features deflated when she realized it wasn’t Bridget.

 _Stupid_.

It was the nurse from before, coming to poke and prod at her some more. And then it was the doctor, the surgeon who had operated on her hand.

“And how are _we_ feeling?” His smile was fake, and for some reason, the causal use of the plural pronoun left a bitter taste in Franky’s mouth.

 **_You_ ** _didn’t have your hand crushed by a drunken slimy, bastard, and_ **_you_ ** _weren’t held against a fucking counter and nearly raped!_

People came and went over the next hour— her case manager, an intern, someone who brought her lunch. A fucking _counselor_ —a tall, lanky woman who looked fresh out of uni, and did a double take at the vibrant ink that spanned Franky’s arm. Franky sent her away before the girl could barely get a word out.

A lawyer even showed up. He had heard about what happened on the news, ( _Jesus, fuck, what were they saying?)_ and he wanted to ‘help’. Yeah fuckin’ right.

Two police officers knocked, asking if they could interview her. Franky shrugged to get it over with, even though her pulse sped up at the sight of the dark uniforms. She didn’t remember what she told them. They left, though, so she guessed she said enough to get them off of her back for now.

Everyone was in her goddamn space— everyone except the only person she wanted there.

She needed to talk to Bridget, needed to explain. Franky had never felt the need to explain herself to anyone before— never wanted to. And maybe that was it. She knew Bridget didn’t _expect_ an explanation. She would probably never bring it up if Franky didn’t; she wouldn’t ask who Amy was, and she wouldn’t mention that she _definitely_ witnessed her tongue plunging down Franky’s throat.

_I don’t want Amy, I want you._

Lost in thought, Franky barely registered the door opening for the thousandth time. She didn’t look up until the smell of fresh coffee wafted into her nose.

“It’s hospital issue, but better than nothing,” Bridget extended one of the paper mugs, smile twinkling in the corners of her eyes.

Franky took the coffee, any words sticking like glue to the inside of her throat.

“Sorry I took so long, had a bit of an emergency downstairs with a patient,” Bridget offered.

Franky shook her head. “Don’t need’a apologize.”

The door opened again, and Franky’s hand clenched a little too hard around the hot mug. Sarah, the nurse, appeared, and Franky bit down on her tongue, _hard_ , to prevent herself from screaming at the girl to just fuck _off_.

“Franky, I have the forms and information for the bedsit.” Sarah’s voice was high and chipper, like nails on a chalkboard.

The nurse continued to ramble about the temporary housing program, but Franky wasn’t listening. She caught Bridget’s eyes, and something inside her chest flipped when she realized that they had exactly the same look in them as before. _Before_ , when Bridget asked Franky to stay with her. _Before_ she saw Franky’s lips pressed against someone else’s.

No strings.

 _You can still stay with me_ , they said.

“Franky?” Sarah’s voice broke through her reverie.

“I— uh, yeah, sorry.” Franky kept her eyes trained on Bridget’s.

Still no change.

And Franky knew that she was still shit. Knew that she was a coward, and she didn’t deserve to utter the next words out of her mouth. But she was so fucking _tired_ , and maybe she could pretend, just for a little while, that she wasn’t. She could pretend that she _did_ deserve help without conditions, and a home, and someone to care about.

“I don’t think I need ‘em. I’m… staying with a friend.”

Franky swallowed, and Bridget smiled at her.

Sarah was confused, not for the first time by Franky, but accepted the sudden change of plans with little other questions. She eventually left, leaving Franky alone with Bridget.

Fuckin’ _finally_. Franky had half a mind to ask Bridget to lock the door.

Franky folded her arms over her chest. Her heart was hammering, and she thought that Bridget could surely tell. She felt exposed.

“Is that offer still on the table, Gidge?”

“It was never off.” Bridget’s answer was immediate.

The corners of Franky’s mouth tipped up slowly into a wide smile, the reaction automatic.

Franky wanted to take this woman into her arms—hold her and kiss her until both of their lips were swollen and bruised.

But she stayed in the damn cardboard cot, half because she was shackled by IV tubes and whatever the hell else, and half because _this_ , whatever it was, had to be on Bridget’s terms.

So she bit down on her lip and glanced up to the ceiling.

“What happened, before, with Amy… it doesn’t mean anything.”

Franky looked at Bridget. “She’s another contestant. Or, was. It was fucking miserable on that set, and she took the edge off sometimes,” she shook her head and shrugged, trying to find her words.

Bridget sat down, in her familiar place next to the bed, and took a breath. “I don’t care about Amy. I care about _you_ , and you certainly don’t owe me any explanations.”

Franky tried to ignore the somersault in her abdomen.

What the fuck was she doing? She should be _running_ — running fast and far.

Bridget cared about her?

_All I think, day and night, is you._

Franky’s eyebrows creased and she closed her eyes briefly at the intensity of the memory. And all she could do in the moment was nod and breathe two single syllables.

“Okay.”

_______________

The bright red lights on the alarm clock blinked on the nightstand— taunting, teasing.

**_3:09_ **

Bridget flipped over under the sheets again, huffing. It was hopeless. She had been tossing and turning for hours now, with no relief. Her mind just kept going.

And going, and going, and going.

Franky Doyle was three rooms down the hall. In her _home_.

Fucking _hell_.

Moments from the past day played on the backs of her eyelids like a reel.

The way Franky had taken her house in, a speck of awe and appreciation in her eyes under the sarcasm. “ _Gee, Gidget, this place is a dump. You should have just told me you didn’t have the room!”_ Franky had winked, and Bridget rolled her eyes.

The way that her abdomen clenched and an ache brewed between her thighs when Franky came out from the bathroom, showered and dressed in the old t-shirt and pajama shorts that Bridget had left out for her.

The way that Amy had kissed Franky’s lips.

She would never admit how her stomach twisted into a harsh knot, how her gut coiled at the sight.

Her feelings were not warranted, and she tried to bury them.

She still felt Franky’s fingertips on her own jaw, on her _own_ lips. Franky’s breath mere inches from her mouth.

Bridget had told Franky _not yet_ , and it still wasn’t _yet_ ; it couldn’t be, and she knew that the second the words ‘ _stay with me_ ’ rushed out of her mouth.

Bridget would not exploit her. She would not put more cards on the table, when Franky didn’t have the option of folding— she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Bridget would not turn a safe place into something _more_.

She sighed, willing her mind to just _stop_.

Bridget heard a sound then, coming from the down the hall. Her ears perked, and her breath stilled. She wondered for a second if she had imagined it. But then there it was again— a muted, but definitive _sob_ , and Bridget threw the covers off of her body and padded quickly across the hardwood floor.

She stilled outside the guest room door, where she had said goodnight to Franky hours ago. Debating whether or not to knock on the door, her hand stilled in the air, the other secured onto her hip.

Her heart cracked at the thought of Franky suffering just on the other side of the wall. But no _shit_ , she was suffering, Bridget reminded herself. Franky had been through hell and back, not twenty-four hours ago.  

A guttural cry sounded through the door then, Franky’s voice loud and clear, _“Get off!”_

Bridget didn’t think anymore. She pushed the door open, pausing for only a second, just to be certain that there wasn’t _actually_ an intruder in the house. Franky had kicked the blankets off in a fit; she was squirming on the bed, her face twisted in pain and a layer of sweat encasing her body. Her legs were clenched tightly together, a hand shielding the apex in between her thighs.

The crack in Bridget’s heart burst then, and she didn’t think, didn’t remember kneeling beside the bed.

“Franky, Franky,” she cooed, longing to bring her out of this terror as gently, and with as much space, as possible.

Eventually Franky’s body went rigid, and her eyes shot open, bright green clouded over in fear.

“Franky, it’s Bridget. I’m here,” Bridget helped her brain connect the dots.

Recognition came over Franky’s features, a hand shooting up to cover her mouth and eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Franky’s head shook furiously, a few hot tears falling onto the bed from the rapid movement. Her arms wrapped themselves around her shaking abdomen.

And Bridget couldn’t help it. The instinct to take this woman into her arms was too much, too strong.

 _You don’t have to hold yourself anymore_.

So she slowly, gently, climbed onto the bed and wiped the tear stains from Franky’s cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. She felt Franky lean into her touch, just the slightest, and Bridget adjusted her position, sliding her arm around Franky’s waist to pull her close against her chest. She swiped at wisps of soft brown fringe before tucking Franky’s head against the crook of her neck.

Franky’s strong muscles quaked, silent sobs continuing to wrack her body. She white-knuckled the hem of Bridget’s black singlet, anchoring herself.

A dull ache flooded Bridget’s chest as she drew light circles atop Franky’s t-shirt, from the small of her back to the blades of shoulders.

_I’m here, my darling._

The quakes eventually subsided to tremors, Franky’s body relaxing under Bridget’s gentle touch.

“Rest,” Bridget breathed, her lips dancing along Franky’s temple. “I’ve got you.”

  



	13. Chapter 13

Franky’s eyes fluttered open when the sun’s first rays touched her face. She woke with the sun, always— a protective measure that her body employed years ago, to avoid a slap or a couple of kicks first thing in the morning.

She wasn’t allowed to sleep later than her mother. Mum never got up before the sun though.

This morning, Franky didn’t wake up with a start, as she usually did. Her body hummed, content, and there was no immediate cortisol pumping through her veins to prepare for danger, just in case. She felt safe, although it didn’t quite compute _why_ yet.

Then she felt the arms around her.

Small and soft, but _strong_ arms, that had themselves wrapped around her waist and abdomen from behind.

Holy _fuck_.

Memories from the night before came flooding into her conscious.

The nightmare. How Bridget’s t-shirt clung with sweat to her body. Bridget, whispering in her ear and kissing her temple, soothing away the terror that had consumed her. She didn’t remember falling asleep— just remembered how fucking _good_ those arms felt when Bridget tucked her against her body.

They felt just as good now. She wondered if Bridget had meant to fall asleep in here.

Franky cursed herself, shame bubbling up from her gut.

 _What she must have looked like._ Screaming and crying like a fucking _child_.

Franky squeezed her eyes shut, and concentrated on the sound of the even breathing behind her. She wished she could stay like this forever.

But it was a stupid and impossible wish, and she’d already endured enough disappointment to last a lifetime. She took one more moment to indulge in the feeling of the warm breath on her neck, and the delicate fingertips resting lightly on a tiny patch of exposed skin of her stomach. Then, as quietly and gently as possible, she slid out of Bridget’s arms.

Franky brought herself to an upright position on the edge of the bed, turning slightly so that Bridget was in her line of sight.

The woman was still sound asleep— hadn’t moved an inch. The corners of Franky’s mouth nearly reached her eyes at the sight. Bridget’s mouth was slightly agape, her blonde hair tousled around her face. She was curled into a relaxed fetal position on her side, her arm outstretched over the spot that Franky had just left bare.

Franky readjusted the covers, pulling the sheet and comforter to just below the tops of Bridget’s shoulders. She padded out of the room, stopping to take one last glance towards the bed, before gently shutting the bedroom door behind her.

Franky took a deep breath and ran a hand through her tangled hair as she walked towards the kitchen. The nearly risen sun reflected off of the white marble countertop, creating flecks of pink and gold along the surface.

It was fuckin’ gorgeous— the entire kitchen was. This entire _house_ was. The kitchen had bases of white and black, but statements of bold color, like the large green table and rust colored stools. The kitchen bled into the living space, decorated in black leather couches and more throws and pillows than Franky had ever seen.

It all somehow seemed so _Gidget_. Modern and smartly designed, but warm. So fucking warm.

Franky had never slept in a house like this before. She was used to cardboard mattresses and the necessities, nothing more.

A low rumble sounded from her stomach then, and Franky absentmindedly opened the fridge door, peering in.

She nearly laughed at the sight. A jug of cold-brew coffee sat on the top shelf, next to some greens and vegetables, and an opened bottle of Chardonnay. In the freezer, a half gallon tub of ice cream and some frozen fruit.

That was it.

Franky clicked her tongue into a smirk and shook her head. She should have known. Bridget didn’t strike her as the type of person to kill much time in the kitchen. No wonder they ate take-away last night.

Franky glanced towards the window, chewing on her lip and eyeing the windy footpath outside. She needed to keep her hands and mind busy, and if she couldn’t do that over a stove, (even _she_ didn’t think an edible miracle was possible with the contents of that fridge) running was the next best option. She gave her attire a once-over, deciding that the shorts and t-shirt would do; she grabbed one of Bridget’s gross breakfast protein bars from the bowl atop the counter, donned her sneakers—that proved to be a harder and more frustrating task to do with one hand than she remembered— and made her way towards the front door.

___________

Franky’s feet pounded the pavement, her breathing harsh and ragged. She guessed she was on her fifth mile by now. It was Saturday, and Bridget’s spacious neighborhood was quiet— sounds few and far between. A barking dog here, a car door slam there. Maybe it was too quiet, because Franky’s mind wouldn’t stop turning.

She sped up to a near sprint.

_“Hot-Tempered Reality Show Contestant Assaulted by Long-Time Chef and Judge”_

That was the headline in yesterday’s Herald. Why the fuck was she “hot-tempered” but Pennisi was simply a “long-time chef and judge”? As if she brought this onto herself. As if she _deserved_ it. It would come out that she “assaulted” him first, no doubt. If it hadn’t already. The two weren’t even comparable! But Franky knew how the system worked, and it wasn’t in her favor. It never was. Once the public got wind of her capability for violence, she would be discredited in a heartbeat.

Her stomach churned whenever she thought about turning on the TV. She couldn’t do it, just like she couldn’t bring herself to pick up her stuff at the studio. She had her wallet, that was it. Yesterday, Bridget had asked Franky in the car if she wanted her to pick up the rest of her belongings. Franky had just shrugged. “Don’t need anything.”

Bridget hadn’t pushed her— just nodded and said production could send anything over in a few days anyway.

Sweat slid from Franky’s temple to the crook of her neck. She was sprinting now.

Would this go to court? Would she have to testify? Franky heaved at the thought. She could hear the comments now.

 _The accuser has a history of violent outbursts, the last of which against the defendant._ **_She_ ** _should be on trial._

_Doyle accused her roommate of sexual assault ten years ago, but the claims were unfounded. Maybe that’s the case this time, too._

But they _weren’t_ fucking unfounded!

What was she supposed to do now, anyway? Who would hire her? The show paid the contestants shit, so it wasn’t like she was swimming in cash. Maybe her old manager at Hercules Morse would take pity. He always liked her.

Franky didn’t even realize she was back in front of Bridget’s house. She slowed to a stop, hunching and leaning her body’s weight onto her knees as she attempted to catch her breath.

Franky jogged up to the front door, opening it slowly. Part of her hoped that Bridget was still sleeping. A rehashing of her nightmare wasn’t exactly high on her list of things to do.

But Bridget wasn’t sleeping. Franky entered the kitchen to see the blonde perched against the counter, coffee mug in hand. Her hair was still tousled into a messy ponytail, and she hadn’t changed from the flannel shorts and black singlet that Franky recognized from last night.

Franky’s heart skipped a beat— Bridget looked good enough to eat. Franky tried to push that thought far from her mind, even as her abdomen clenched and tightened.

Bridget’s expression was just the slightest bit unreadable— mug clutched against her chest, body unmoving except for her eyes—Deep blues jutting back and forth over Franky; Bottom lip held tightly between her teeth.

“I thought you left,” Bridget spoke softly.

Franky crossed her arms and shook her head. “Nuh. Just went for a run. Didn’t want to bother ya.”

Bridget nodded.

“Mind if I shower?” Franky gestured to her sticky skin and damp clothes.

“You don’t have to ask.” Bridget placed her coffee mug on the counter behind her. “I’ll put some yoga pants and t-shirts in your room… the pants might be a little small, but—”

“I'll manage, shorty,” Franky winked.

Bridget narrowed her eyes at Franky, a tight, narrow smile extending on her lips.

Franky held up her hands in mock surrender. “No, thank you, I mean that. I‘ll go out and grab some clothes at the store later,” she added, turning to make her way towards the bathroom.

“Hey Gidge?” Franky called from down the hallway.

“Mm?”

“We’re going to the supermarket today.”

________________

The pot of sauce simmered on the stove, an aroma of garlic and sweet chili peppers filling the house.

Her kitchen had never smelled so good, of that Bridget was certain.

Franky had dragged her to the supermarket after she had gotten home from work that day; she carried on the entire car ride about the ill effects of living on protein bars and frozen food.

_“That stuff is shit, Gidge!”_

She had listened amusedly, content to suffer through any lecture if the consolation was Franky’s cooking.

Bridget sipped her Cabernet, watching Franky move throughout the kitchen… her movements were purposeful, effortless. She watched her dice onion and chop tomatoes and knead dough, masterfully. Bridget was nearly mesmerized at the sight of Franky in such a zone. Franky was doing all of this mostly one-handed, too, and Bridget was amazed.

She had offered to help. “I’m no expert, but I can handle chopping and dicing, Franky. Your hand…”

But Franky wouldn’t hear it, swatting her hand away whenever she attempted to take hold of the knife or peeler.

So Bridget finally gave up and sat down at the counter.

Her thoughts drifted to earlier that morning. The empty bed. No traces of Franky. Bridget had assumed that Franky freaked when she woke up, and bolted. Bridget wouldn’t have blamed her.

She had been in the middle of cursing herself for the thousandth time, early that morning, when she heard the door open, and her breath stopped short.

_Franky didn’t leave._

Bridget had kept her physical distance from Franky for the rest of those early hours; she had clearly encroached on her space enough for the day. She had gone to work, but not before offering to drive Franky to the mall on her way. Franky declined.

_“Nah, Gidge, no way. You would be late for work, and I know the city bus schedule by heart. Don’t worry about me.”_

Bridget did worry. Of course she did. But it wasn’t her place to voice it, professionally or personally.

Her chest tightened. The lines were blurring, and _fast_.

Bridget brought herself back to the present as she thumbed the stem of her glass.

She cleared her throat. “Franky…”

“Yep?” Franky answered without turning around.

“I need to apologize. Last night—”

Franky dropped the knife onto the cutting board, but didn’t turn around. “Nah. I’m gonna stop ya right there, aye? Nothin’ to apologize for.”

But Bridget continued. “When you woke up and I was in the bed.. god, you must have…”

Franky finally spun around then, but stayed in her place next to the stove. Her eyes pierced Bridget’s in such a way that it felt like she was only an inch away.

Franky shrugged, her brow creasing, waiting for Bridget to continue.

“I must have what?” She pushed now, her mouth setting into a straight line.

Bridget noticed the rigidity of her muscles then, and shook her head. “Never mind. You’re right, we don’t have to talk about this right now.”

But Franky pressed on. “No, Gidge, come on. I want to know what you think _I thought_.” There was annoyance in her voice… frustration.

Franky read her mind before Bridget could answer.

“You thought I would run, yeah?”

“Well I wouldn’t blame you if you did!” Bridget’s voice rose an accidental octave.

Franky crossed her arms, and Bridget wished she could rewind the last couple of minutes.

“Did you want me to? Is that it?” Franky’s voice was hard—but Bridget knew the hardness simply masked quivering breaths and an uneven tone.

“God, no! _No_ , Franky.”

_Please believe that._

Franky scoffed, but her eyes softened.

Bridget put her wine glass down on the counter, probably a little too hard, and the _clink_ of the glass smacking against the marble echoed through the kitchen.

“I want you to stay, Franky, and that’s the goddamn problem! I want it— I want _you_ — a little too much. When I heard you crying down the hall last night, I didn't think. I was on autopilot or something. Do you know how much that scares me? I’m not in control here.” Bridget’s voice wavered against her wishes.

She swallowed, forcing the last of her thoughts out. “And if something for _you_ gets fucked up because of _me_ , I would never forgive myself.”

Bridget hadn’t noticed before that Franky had gradually come closer, but _now_ she was _acutely_ aware of their close proximity. Franky had rounded the counter and was standing a mere three inches in front of Bridget. Bridget’s breath quickened, the familiar tightness of her chest taking hold. With Bridget sitting on the high stool, they were eye-level.

Blue reflected off of green. Franky bore her eyes into Bridget’s until the colors seemed to run together.

Suddenly she felt Franky’s left hand on her cheek, her fingers tucking stray strands of blonde away from her face.

Franky shook her head in a shrug, corners of her mouth slightly tugging upwards. When she spoke, her voice came out in a hoarse whisper, but her tone carried a gentle understanding.

“Right back at ya, Gidget.”

Franky’s lips moved an inch closer to Bridget’s, and Bridget shivered. Franky hovered for only a second before Bridget closed the gap, her lips crashing onto Franky’s.

 


	14. Chapter 14

The only sound through the house came from a low, constant simmer on the stovetop.

The only sound, except for a _hitch_ in Bridget’s breath as Franky took her bottom lip between her own lips. And a soft _groan_ , as Bridget opened her mouth to allow Franky to swipe her tongue gently along the inside of her mouth.

The only sound, except for air desperately rushing into lungs, and swollen lips connecting over and over again.

Everything felt… magnified. The way Franky’s body slid in between her legs, against the kitchen stool. The way gentle fingers tipped her chin upwards, to change the angle of the kiss. The way her neck tingled as those fingers threaded into her hair.

Bridget had pictured this moment many times; In her dreams, and when she allowed her mind to wander, and defer to her heart, instead of her brain.

Franky Doyle was fire— a fury of moveable passion; energy that struck you like a lightning bolt.

So Bridget expected that fiery energy to manifest as Franky pressed her lips into hers. She expected quick movements, and hard kisses, and hands covering every inch of her body, right away.

 _This_ wasn’t that.

When Franky had first kissed her, it was tender, but shallow, and she pulled away nearly just as fast. Eyes level, Bridget caught the hint of uncertainty under the dilated black— silently searching.

_Are you sure?_

Bridget had answered with a tip of her mouth and a crease in her eyes, as she wrapped her hands around the base of Franky’s neck. She pulled Franky to her, within a centimeter of her own lips, and allowed Franky to close the second gap.

Franky’s lips had lingered longer that time, and her left hand had wound itself in Bridget’s hair. But that explosion of _fast_ passion never came. Instead, it burned slowly, intoxicating, to a point where Bridget thought _every_ nerve ending in her body was responding to every _inch_ of Franky’s mouth. The kisses stayed deep, but slow, even when Franky’s tongue had sought entry.

Franky’s hand moved from Bridget’s hair, to her neck, to her cheek, but never with a sense of hurry. It was as if she moved to hold another part of Bridget only when her hand had enough time to memorize an imprint of the last.

Something in the back of Bridget’s mind pinged— it wasn’t a siren, sounding the alert, like she expected. Just a quiet, definitive conclusion.

_There is no going back now._

Bridget’s lips continued to dance along Franky’s. Her hand found its way to the swell of her hip, where the waist of Franky’s black jeans met the soft fabric of her jumper. Heat simmered and settled within Bridget’s abdomen, embers glowing, turning her heart over in her chest.

There was a sudden, sharp, _ding_ then, but unlike the alert her mind had put out, this one was constant— a steady, shrill beeping, that slowly increased in volume.

Franky broke the kiss, groaning in low frustration, and Bridget’s brow creased in confusion.

“Dinner.” Franky’s eyed twinkled in amusement as understanding descended on Bridget’s features.

Bridget pulled back a bit, keeping her hand in place on Franky’s hip.

“Fuck,” Bridget answered, her voice barely above a whisper, a shy smile playing on her lips.

The twinkle in Franky’s eyes stayed, her face breaking into a wide grin. “Gee, Gidge, I’m surprised I didn’t find cobwebs in that oven, if ya don’t even know what your own timer sounds like.”

Bridget scoffed, shaking her head. “I _do_ know what it sounds like, I just— it sounded for a second like… I—”

Franky leaned in again, and swiped her thumb along Bridget’s lips, effectively shutting her up. “I’m kidding,” she smiled.

Bridget felt her cheeks and neck flush, half from embarrassment in stammering like a schoolgirl, half from the warmth of Franky’s tender touch.

Franky bit her lip, eyes darting over Bridget’s face, the continuous _beeping_ in the background sounding louder and louder by the second.

“I should get that.” There was regret in Franky’s voice, but also something else that hung low in her eyes, that Bridget couldn’t quite put her finger on.

But really, there was nothing else she could do besides nod. And as her lips tingled and protested the lost of contact, Bridget wasn’t sure whether she should be cursing the inept interruption, or sending her thanks to the universe.

The universe, that seemed hell bent on reminding her every chance it got, that she could make decisions and plans, and reason with herself until she was blue in the face.

But where Franky Doyle was concerned, it just didn’t bloody matter.

* * *

An extended moan reverberated from Bridget’s throat— the cause of the low sound slightly different than just fifteen minutes prior.

Franky smirked, ignoring the tightening ache in her core. She nervously stabbed at some garlicky cheese-filled noodles floating under the warm broth.

“Good?”

“Jesus, it’s more than _good_. Are you kidding?” Bridget flashed a wide smile across the table.

The knot in Franky’s chest tightened—she couldn’t take it anymore, and had to look away.

The taste of Bridget’s lips still lingered in her mouth. The feeling of warm, soft skin against her hand. The echoes of contented sighs and satisfied groans.

What the fuck happens now?

Was she supposed to acknowledge that she and Bridget had just been making out in the middle of the kitchen? Was she supposed to eat dinner and be on her way, and pretend that nothing had happened?

Franky found herself in a whole new ballgame, and she didn’t know how to play.

Bridget’s words echoed in her mind.

_“I want it.”_

_“I want you.”_

_“I’m not in control here.”_

“Franky?”

Franky’s eyes snapped back to the present, meeting raised eyebrows and concerned, full eyes across the table.

She cleared her throat. “Sorry, what?”

Bridget’s eyes softened, the corners coming together under her eyelashes to draw those little lines that Franky loved so much.

Bridget shook her head. “Just.. was voicing my appreciation for the food, again.”

She raised her stem glass to her lips, pausing for a moment, before adding “and the chef.”

Franky swore she caught a slight wag in Bridget’s already raised brows, and she couldn’t help it— she smirked, tilting her head, the ends of her mouth turning slightly upwards.

“Oh you were, were ya?”

“Mm,” Bridget hummed, her eyes staying trained on Franky, lips pursed gently on the rim of her glass.

Franky held Bridget’s gaze. “Well, only the best for ya, Gidge,” she winked.

Bridget laughed, finally setting her glass down. “I bet you say that to all the women you kiss.”

Franky gulped, and she couldn’t help the smile that stayed on her lips.

_Jesus, this woman._

Guess she had her answer as to whether they were going to ignore their makeout session or not.

Franky shrugged. “Nah. You’re the only woman I’ve ever cooked for, actually.”

The words—the _truth_ — came out easier than Franky expected. Her skills in the kitchen had never been used to woo or seduce, or even as a causal gesture or favor. Franky started cooking when she was a little girl out of necessity, and it stayed that way pretty much all her life. The talent helped keep her alive— it helped her make deals and money, and that was basically it. She enjoyed the creative process of cooking, she really did; but survival always came first, and she simply never had time to use her talent frivolously.

Franky could tell that her response caught Bridget by surprise, and she suddenly worried that she was about to expose much more of herself than she was prepared to do.

So she changed the subject.

“But this five star kitchen didn’t hurt, either, Gidge— wasn’t all me. Wish we had that warming drawer on the show, ours was shit compared to that one,” Franky gestured with her head towards the appliance.

“I’m just glad someone’s using it,” Bridget smiled, as she bit into another Tortellini.

“Who designed this joint?” Franky asked.

Bridget finished chewing before offering a simpler answer than Franky was expecting.

“I did.”

Franky nearly choked on her sip of water, eyes widening. “No fucking way!”

Bridget smiled. “What? Didn’t peg me for a good eye?”

Franky shook her head. “Oh, I know you have a good eye, Gidge,” she winked, and Bridget rolled her eyes.

“Nah, but seriously, you designed this whole place? It’s fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Franky took a breath, folding her arms. Her smile faded just the slightest, as she thought of what else this meant, besides discovering one of Bridget’s hidden talents.

She knew before, that Bridget was comfortable, financially. That much was obvious. But this… this meant that Bridget wasn’t _just_ comfortable. She designed her own fucking house, for fuck’s sake. The thought somewhat unsettled Franky, and she didn’t know why.

Franky shook her thoughts. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long. Nearly a year.” Bridget paused then, looking down at her fingers as she wrapped them around the stem of her glass— a nervous tic that Franky had caught onto.

“I was dating someone at the time. She wanted a bigger place, and I had the money. And it was kind of always a silly dream of mine… to completely design my own space from scratch.”

She paused again, and Franky allowed her the space to continue, if she wanted to.

Bridget took a breath. “Well, the relationship didn’t work out, but the house did.”

Franky nodded, biting her tongue on the thoughts flying through her head.

Bridget uprooted and built a fucking house, because a partner had _asked her to._

 _Jesus._ Franky gulped. Somehow this new knowledge was not surprising.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, with the girl. Or, guy. Was it a guy?” Franky realized she had no idea.

Bridget chuckled lightly. “Girl.”

She took another sip of wine. “But don’t be sorry. I'm not.”

Franky nodded again. “Just a shame you’ve built this beautiful kitchen and you don’t even cook, Gidge. Maybe you’ll keep me around for a bit, aye?” Franky winked, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth.

It was just a meant to be a deflection, and Franky expected Bridget to laugh. Maybe respond with something witty, a quick retort from the tip of her tongue.

But Bridget was quiet as she chewed, and Franky could practically see her gears turning. Then she put her fork down, and looked at Franky.

“I would... want to keep you around, for as long as you wanted to be here.”

And maybe it was the words, and maybe it was the way that Bridget was looking at her— her gaze _heavy_ , devoid of any flirtation that had been present only seconds ago. Maybe it was her tone— _purposeful_ and slow, as if she needed Franky to understand every syllable.

Whatever it was, Franky suddenly felt exposed. Bridget’s response caught her off guard, and she hadn’t been prepared.

She was quick enough to read between the lines. She _knew_ that Bridget cared about her; she _felt_ it— she felt it in the way that her arms held her so tight the night before. She felt it in the way Bridget’s lips had kissed her, with warmth and purpose and certainty. No one had ever held her like that, and no one had _ever_ kissed her like that.

The truth? This was fucking terrifying, and she didn’t know what the fuck to do with it all.

And now the conversation’s tone had shifted, and Franky wasn’t ready.

She unconsciously wiped her left hand across her mouth, her features hissing into a soft grimace.

“Franky?”

Franky looked at Bridget, crossing her arms over her chest, waiting.

“I need to say something, and damnit, if I don’t say it now…” Bridget trailed off, eyeing Franky, waiting for permission.

Franky swallowed hard as her pulse sped up. She shrugged at Bridget as nonchalantly as possible.

Bridget took a deep breath.

“Franky, I’m too far gone. I know that now. I’m too deep into this, into you… listen to me, okay? I— I care about you. God, I _care_ about you. And I need you to know, that this is _your_ choice. I’ll follow your lead, Franky.”

Franky frowned. Bridget was too _far gone_? Did she wish that she wasn’t?

Franky pushed her seat back, the sudden, loud _scraping_ on the wood floor jarring against the heavy silence.

She walked over to the sink, closing her eyes and leaning her weight against the counter. Bridget’s words echoed in her mind, again.

_“I’m not in control here.”_

Franky’s stomach churned. She didn’t want that.

Franky realized, for the first time in her life, that she couldn’t just fuck this woman and walk away. She couldn’t just _take_ her, and throw her back.

It wasn’t going to work like that, because it _couldn’t_.

And so that meant that Franky was going to have to lay it on the table. Put on her fucking big girl pants like everyone else, and open herself up— slice herself wide open, if only for a second, because she _had_ to _know_.

What was one more scar, anyway?

Franky spun around, finally looking back at Bridget. She shifted, keeping her left hand supporting herself against the counter.

She might fucking collapse if she let go.

“Bridget, I _want_ you, fuck, I want you so bad that it scares me. And this isn’t a game to me, you’re not some box— some _fuck_ — I’m ticking off with a tally.” Franky paused then, gathering herself.

“But if you don’t feel like _you_ have a choice— if you’re just shoving a big middle finger to any consequences, because you slid down some rocky cliff that you can’t seem to climb back up— well, _fuck that_ , Gidge!” Franky jutted her pointer finger in Bridget’s direction. “I won’t do it. I won't drag you down any further— because eventually you’re going to hit rock bottom and realize there’s no way back u—“

“I choose you.”

Franky stopped short then, her breathing ragged.

_What did Bridget just say?_

Bridget finally stood then, but made no move to come closer.

“I choose you, Franky. I would choose you every _single_ time, on my absolute own accord. And does that scare me, just a little bit? Hell yes! I’m going against every grain that’s ever been embedded inside me, but _fuck_ if I don't know how _right_ this is. I’m terrified! But Jesus, Franky, you know what? I’m not sliding down some cliff, either! You’re not an avalanche, for God’s sake. If there’s a cliff involved, I’ve got news for you— we’re going down it together.”

Franky’s ears rang. She stood there, blood pumping through her veins, her breathing shallow.

The silence echoed through the house, not even the simmering of a pot there to cover it this time.

Franky chewed her lip, huffed gently, and threw her left hand up and back down against her body.

_What the fuck am I supposed to do with that, Gidge?_

But she knew what to do with that. She inched closer to Bridget, invading her space, where she stood by the table. Franky took a breath, and the corners of her mouth curled upwards.

For the second time that night, Franky’s lips descended onto Bridget’s. And she took Bridget’s face into her hands gently, but unlike the first time, she deepened the kiss immediately. She kissed Bridget fiercely; she kissed her like she wasn’t about to lose her.

Bridget’s presence was not fragile, and she wasn’t about to evaporate into thin air.

Neither was Franky.

* * *

Across the city, a bellowing, angry voice could be heard throughout the entire floor of the swanky office.

“I swear to god, Mike, how the _fuck_ could you be so stupid? You got mad that some girl threw a couple of punches at you? So you got drunk and decided to get back at her on _MY_ SET? You fucking idiotic bastard, do you know the fucking lawsuit we could have on our hands? _DO YOU?”_

“Jesus, John!” Pennisi spat. “I said I would fix this. Doyle’s got no resources, no money—”

Marks growled. “You IDIOT! That’s exactly my point, she’s desperate!”

“She’s not smart enough for that! This is going to blow right over, you’ll see,” Pennisi countered.

“Yeah, well, I’m not taking that chance— not when it’s _my_ show at stake. I’ll take care of her myself,” Marks sneered, and then added, “I need the contact information for that lowlife you dug up. The one that knew Doyle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I wouldn't dream of slighting you all out of some 'first time' smut ;)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change :)  
> Thanks to EVERYONE for continuing to read and kudo and comment. Means the absolute world!

Her body was on fire. But not the kind of fire she’s experienced before.

This fire did not scald her, did not burn her. _This_ fire, instead, was all sparks and warm embers. The kind of fire that illuminated brilliance instead of terror.

Bridget’s hand slipped under the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly playing on sensitive flesh.

Franky bit down gently on Bridget’s bottom lip, silencing a low groan.

Bridget hummed into her mouth, the vibration reverberating all the way down to her core, heat stirring in her abdomen.

 _Fuck, they had to stop_. If this went any further…

But then Bridget trailed her mouth down Franky’s neck, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses down to the top of her collarbone.

“We can stop, Franky, if you want to.”

She swore this woman could read her fucking mind.

“Do _you_ want to?” Franky breathed.

Bridget picked her head up, dilated pupils finding Franky’s.

Lips swollen, skin flushed.

 _Fuck, I’m not going to last_.

“No.” Bridget answer was firm, but gentle… honest. And Franky couldn’t help but reciprocate, the truth bubbling up in her throat like an erupting volcano.

“I want you.”

_I’ve never wanted anyone more._

Had she ever said those words before? Had she ever declared such desperation, in _this_ moment, with no hints of bravado or cheekiness?

She didn’t have time to dwell. Bridget cupped Franky’s jaw in both of her hands and tugged her down, pressing their lips together again.

Franky wanted to mirror the act, she wanted to hold Bridget’s face and bring her as close as fucking possible, but she had only had one damn hand, and this was going to kill her slowly, wasn’t it?

So instead, Franky trailed her left hand down Bridget’s back, to the swell of her arse. She cupped her backside and pressed Bridget into her, as tightly as possible.

Bridget moaned into her mouth again.

Franky could feel the heat radiating off of Bridget’s body; there was no space between them, but there was a _barrier_ , and Franky needed _more_. She craved to feel Bridget’s bare skin against hers, and the thought that she may get to experience just that was too intoxicating, and her head spun.

Bridget pulled away suddenly, and for a moment, panic filled Franky’s insides. But then Bridget reached for her left hand, and tugged gently, her eyes landing on Franky’s for the answer to her silent question.

 _Oh, god, yes_.

So Franky followed Bridget down the hallway, past the guest room, where she had slept the previous night. Where they _both_ had slept. And then all of the sudden, they were in another bedroom— _Bridget’s_ bedroom.

Bridget pulled her in, winding her hands up around her neck, cocking her head to peer up at Franky.

“You sure?”

Franky could only nod.

Because being in Bridget’s bedroom— in her coveted space— did something to Franky.

The room itself was gorgeous, unsurprisingly. White walls, with spots of bold colors throughout. A modern, sleek gray duvet, on a bed in the center of the room. Glass side tables, lined in wood.  A few picture frames scattered along the top of the dresser in the corner.

The room smelled like a mixture of Bridget’s perfume and shampoo, and Franky wanted to fucking wrap herself in it. Bridget’s pajamas from the previous night were folded on a black barrel chair in the corner of the room.

She usually hated fucking in a woman’s _bedroom_ , for this very reason— the forceful confrontation of intimacy. Fucking on a couch, or in a hotel room, or even in the bathroom in the back of a bar— there was nothing intimate about that. Just two bodies getting each other off.

This was entirely different. _This_ made Franky’s heart pound in her ears. She was terrified. But she couldn’t run— wouldn’t dream of running.

Bridget’s hands and mouth surrounded her; strong, soft hands roaming under Franky’s shirt again— along her hips, her navel, the curved indents of her waist.

Franky tried to tug Bridget’s blouse out from the waist of her pants, but it was too hard with just one hand, and she groaned in frustration.

Reaching down to pull the rest of the shirt out, Bridget looked up at Franky with heavy eyelids, her voice raspy and low. “Are you going to be okay?”

Franky knew she was referring to her hand.

“I’ll be fine, yeah. Just do me a favor, Gidge?” Franky inched her mouth closer to Bridget’s, stopping just short of her lips.

“Anything.”

“Help me out with these damn buttons.”

Bridget laughed, the sound coming from deep in her throat. She took a step back, and her fingers went to the top button on her blouse.

Franky gulped. _Fuck_.

Bridget kept her eyes trained on Franky as she worked through the buttons, hints of black lace becoming visible as the shirt loosened.

Franky came to realize two things in that moment. The first, that her core was throbbing, pulsing so hard she thought she might burst. The second, was that Bridget Westfall was dominant.

Franky recognized that look— that twinkle of control, as Bridget undressed in front of Franky.

Anxiety stirred for a moment in her gut.

But as quickly as they came, the apprehensive thoughts dispersed, Franky’s mind becoming hazy as Bridget’s blouse fell purposefully to the ground.

Jesus, she was so _beautiful_.

Bridget’s stomach was toned, but her skin glowed of softness. There was a spattering of freckles and beauty marks that trailed from her chest to abdomen, creating a sharp contrast against her fair skin.

Franky wanted to pounce— she would have in any other circumstance, with any other person. But Bridget still had that look in her eyes, that _Franky_ usually had.

And it told her that Bridget wasn’t done.

 _Stay where you are_ , her eyes said.

Franky listened.

Bridget unzipped her pants, and hooked her thumbs in the loopholes, sliding them down her legs slowly.

Franky bit down on her own lip so hard she was surprised she didn’t draw blood.

Stepping out of her pants, Bridget tossed them aside— now clad only in her bra and silk thong.

“ _Fuck_ , Gidge.” Franky didn’t mean to speak out loud.

Bridget smiled knowingly, her eyes gently teasing.

Franky expected Bridget take hold of her then, lead her to the bed, just as she had taken her into the bedroom. Or maybe, she would begin to undress Franky. Or worse, tease her over her clothes, pressing against the single layer of cloth until Franky was writhing— begging.

Franky didn’t beg. But she knew she would be in fucking trouble if that’s what _Bridget_ was intent on.

But Bridget didn’t do any of those things. She sat on the edge of the bed, and laid down, flat on her back, arms moving to rest just above her head.

And the look in her eyes shifted then.

She smiled again, but this time, her eyes went soft. _I trust you_ , they said. _Take me_ , they said.

Bridget knew. Of course she fucking knew.

 

* * *

 

Her breathing rapid and shallow, she looked up at Franky, the muscles in her exposed stomach visibly moving up and down under taut skin.

Bridget _was_ used to being dominant in bed; It came naturally to her. In the past, the times in which she did _not_ take the lead with a partner were few and far between.

But she would follow Franky every. single. time, if that’s what she needed.

And Bridget knew she had made the correct choice— knew that she was right, when the muscles in Franky’s face and shoulders relaxed, mirroring Bridget’s smile above her.

A glimpse of tongue peeking between her teeth, Franky pulled her own shirt over head, tossing it on the floor along with Bridget’s. The motion was seemingly effortless with just one hand, and Bridget absentmindedly wondered—not for the first time— how that was possible.

But her thoughts were quickly stalled, as her eyes took in Franky’s half-naked form— full breasts spilling from a gray cotton bra, red ink that Bridget had only seen once before, peeking from the top of her bra, on her left breast. She caught flashes of a tattoo lining her abdomen, too, but they quickly disappeared under shadows; Franky immediately climbed onto the bed and parted Bridget’s legs with a knee, nudging them apart so she could climb in between them. Bridget felt denim bump up against her core, and she moaned softly, closing her eyes, as she felt herself swell.

And then Franky was on top of her, half-naked skin pressed to her chest, and Bridget instinctively sighed and wrapped her arms around Franky’s back.

Franky’s hand and mouth were everywhere— nails scraping against her hip bone, lips on the base of her neck. Franky found the sensitive flesh directly under her ear lobe, and Bridget gasped.

She could feel Franky’s smile against the spot where her tongue had just been.

Maneuvering a hand to the center of Franky’s spine, she paused over the small metal clasp, allowing Franky the option to protest.

But there was only an encouraging, low growl against the crook of her neck, and Bridget felt wetness pool in her underwear as she undid the offending garment. Franky sat up slightly to shrug off the bra, and Bridget took the opportunity, reaching to stroke the olive skin surrounding a raised, pink bud.

“You’re beautiful,” she husked, a finger swiping over a swollen peak.

Franky groaned and leaned forward, pressing her bare chest against Bridget’s, Bridget’s hand still cupping her breast between them. Craning her neck downward, her lips connected with the red, orange, and black ink on Franky’s left breast. The room was dim, the only light streaming in from the hallway, but Bridget could make out the tattoo now— a pair of fiery dice.

 _Chance_. _Passion_.

Bridget thought she felt Franky shudder when her lips touched the delicate skin under the ink, but she didn’t have time to explore; Franky tugged lightly on Bridget’s arm, urging her to sit up. Bridget followed suit, Franky shifting to straddle her lap.

Bridget reached behind her back to undo her own bra clasp, but Franky’s hand was faster, and the lace swiftly fell across Bridget’s chest.

Bridget laughed, letting her face fall into the crook of Franky’s neck.  “Hidden talent, ay— _oh!_ ”

Franky had swiped her thumb between them, directly on the swollen, sensitive pink bud.

Humming, Franky pushed gently against Bridget’s sternum as she cupped her left breast, teasing with nimble strokes until goosebumps appeared on the rounded skin.

She lowered her head, pushing Bridget’s breast upwards in her hand until her mouth was level with the neglected, taut skin. Her tongue swirled around Bridget’s areola, and Bridget moaned loudly—nails pressing slightly into the tops of Franky’s shoulders.

_“Fuck, Franky.”_

A bolt shot up through her abdomen as Franky’s mouth clamped down on her nipple.

_“Oh, god.”_

Franky gave Bridget’s hip a reassuring squeeze, swirling her tongue until Bridget dropped her head into Franky’s shoulder again.

It was too much. Bridget attempted to grind down on Franky’s lap, groaning in frustration at the rough barrier of Franky’s jeans.

She needed _more_. Her skin had been set ablaze, her abdomen tight, her core aching with a fervor she wasn’t accustomed to.

Fumbling with the button on Franky’s jeans, she groaned at the loss of contact when Franky suddenly climbed off of her.

Franky kneeled upright on the bed, in front of Bridget, helping to tug her pants down. The movements were a little sloppy, a little awkward, and Franky smiled, as Bridget finally pulled the last leg of black denim away from her ankle.

“In some kind of hurry, Gidge?”

Bridget blushed, and Franky leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. She pushed lightly against Bridget’s shoulders, encouraging her to lie back down.

Assuming her former position, Bridget laid flat on her back, arms relaxed above her head.

Franky smiled, hovering above her, hand moving between Bridget’s legs to inch them apart.

For the first time, Franky’s stomach was completely visible— faint lighting still casing her body in murky shadows, but it was all there. A cherry blossom tree, branches spread wide, canvassed her entire abdomen. Flowers inked over scarred, red skin.

Bridget wanted to kiss every blossom. Run her fingers along the branches, soothe every scar.

But she couldn’t. Not now. Franky was not broken and Bridget was not going to let her think that she needed to be _fixed_ , the second her hidden scars became visible.

Bridget broke from her reverie at the feeling of Franky’s fingertip sliding under the waistband of her panties. Green eyes searched blue under hooded eyelids; Bridget nodded, reaching down to help Franky shimmy the last of her clothes off.

Franky stilled, gaze raking over Bridget’s naked body.

Her dark eyes unnerved Bridget, if only for the reason that no one had ever looked at her like that before. The desire was nearly overwhelming, and Bridget simultaneously felt her heart flip and her core flood, pooling with liquid.

Suddenly, lips were on her neck, on her chest, her shoulder… fingers trailing down her navel.

Bridget shuddered, one hand grasping onto the back of Franky’s neck, the other settling on the curve of her waist.

Franky’s fingers trailed below her navel in a straight line, until they reached the tops of swollen outer lips.

Bridget’s hips reflexively bucked.

 _“_ Yes _, Franky.”_

In any other state of mind, Bridget would have been embarrassed at how utterly _undone_ she was.  

She was a puddle— a mess of panting, flushed limbs. Franky could have done anything she wanted to her in that moment, and Bridget would have _let her_.

Franky crawled further down the bed, until Bridget felt hot breath teasing, hovering, lips and mouth and tongue so _close_ to where she needed them.

A low, mumbled, _“so gorgeous”_ from below barely reached Bridget’s ears, before she felt fingers parting her folds, and a tongue sliding over swollen, pulsing skin.

_“OH, ungh!”_

The sight of Franky’s head buried between her thighs was too much; Bridget slammed her eyes shut, moaning, all words and sounds indiscernible— she barely recognized her own voice.

Franky’s tongue was everywhere— around her, on her. Inside of her.

Her core continued to pulse, wetness seeping, aching for release. Her legs twitched, trembling next to Franky’s head; Franky paused her tongue mid-thrust, grabbing onto the inside of Bridget’s knee, encouraging Bridget to wrap her legs around her head and shoulders.

Following instruction, Bridget cried out as the shift altered the angle of Franky’s tongue, forcing it deeper.

“Fuck, Franky— I can’t, I’m gonna c—” she panted.

Franky slipped her tongue out of Bridget, pulling wetness along with it.

“Come for me, Gidge,” Franky husked, before latching her mouth onto the protruding bud peeking from the tops of Bridget’s folds.

Crying out again, Bridget’s hips rose an inch from the bed. Her abdominal muscles clenched, then contracted, and she came, hard— release flooding her body.

At some point, Franky had reached above, threading her fingers with Bridget’s, as she helped her ride out her orgasm, tongue gently swirling around Bridget’s clit.

Bridget’s moans eventually turned to soft hums beneath her labored breathing, and Franky lapped at the sensitive flesh one more time before lifting her head, eyes searching.

Bridget laid above her, mouth agape and tilted into a contented smile. Limbs were slack, her breathing still settling.

Franky pressed her lips to the inside of Bridget’s damp thigh, then to an over-sensitive outer fold, causing Bridget to shudder a soft “ _oh"_.

Climbing back up Bridget’s body, Franky pulled the covers up, tucking herself on top of Bridget.

Franky kissed her jaw, then her lips.

“Hi,” Bridget sighed, her voice a whisper.

“You’re gorgeous, you know.” The low volume of Franky’s voice matched Bridget’s.

Bridget just smiled, wondering how many times, and in how many ways, this woman was going to light her heart on fire.

She had so much to _say_ , but there was a lump in her throat, and so she simply took Franky’s face in her hands and kissed her, deep, until they were both nearly gasping for air.

Bridget made to roll over atop of Franky, but Franky’s muscles locked, holding herself in place, steady above Bridget.

Bridget immediately stopped pushing, and brought her lips to Franky’s ear.

“ _Okay.”_

Franky’s muscles relaxed under her fingertips, so Bridget  leaned back and shifted her body, turning to lie on her side.

Sliding down, Franky mirrored the position, facing Bridget until there was just an inch or two between them— foreheads and noses and breasts nearly touching.

Reaching between their chests, Bridget thumbed a hardened peak straining towards her, as Franky locked their bruised lips together.

Bridget kept that hand on Franky’s breast, and the other made its way down, slowly, to the apex of Franky’s thighs.

Franky groaned into her mouth, hips thrusting against Bridget’s hand.

The simmered ache began to brew again between Bridget’s thighs— _Jesus_ , the effect this woman had on her.

Soft fingertips dipped below the waistband of Franky’s hipsters, continuing until they came in contact with the top of the slit separating slick folds. Bridget teased her, fingers lightly circling.

“Fuck, Bridget.” Franky gritted against her mouth.

“More?” Bridget smiled.

“Mm,” Franky grunted.

Dipping lower, Bridget’s fingers parted inner folds until the pad of her finger rubbed up against a small opening.

_Fuck, she was so wet._

“Inside,” Franky groaned, hips thrusting again.

A spark snapped inside of Bridget at the wanton command, and her finger sank into Franky, slipping easily against velvety walls.

They both moaned, mouths almost touching. Franky threw her leg around Bridget’s hip.

 _On top._ She was always on top.

Bridget thrusted her finger in and out, her lips sinking back onto Franky’s just as the base of her pointer finger disappeared, buried to the hilt.

_“Aungh!”_

Bridget suddenly felt dizzy, drunk on being inside of Franky, surrounded by echoes of small pants and low groans.

Franky’s face fell against Bridget’s neck as Bridget tugged on her nipple.

“More,” Franky husked.

Bridget adjusted and slipped out of Franky, adding her middle finger as she pressed gently against Franky’s opening again.

Feeling no resistance, Bridget pushed inside, eliciting a small gasp from Franky against her neck.

Bridget stilled for a moment, allowing Franky’s walls to stretch and accommodate the extra digit.

_God, she felt so good._

“Fuck, baby,” she sighed, as Franky lifted her hips and sank back down onto Bridget’s fingers.

Somewhere in the back of her head, she realized that was the first time she called Franky anything other than her name. Franky didn’t seem to notice, or mind, as she continued to control the rhythm of Bridget’s fingers inside of her, grinding her hips up and down.

She was panting hard against the crook of Bridget’s neck, and Bridget began to thrust her hips in tune with Franky’s— her movements on autopilot.

Franky gritted her teeth, her groans increasing in volume, and Bridget let go of her breast, bringing her now free hand to the apex between Franky’s thighs, just above where her fingers were disappearing. She stroked Franky’s swollen, neglected, clit once, then twice, with the pad of her thumb. Franky went absolutely rigid, stalled with the tip of Bridget’s fingers just barely inside of her. Bridget kept her thumb circling the bud, and suddenly Franky cried out, falling back down, her muscles contracting and squeezing around Bridget’s fingers over and over again.

Bridget moaned as the spasms slowed around her fingers. She lifted Franky’s face from her neck, placing a kiss on her temple, her fingers making no moves to leave the warmth they were still buried in.

Franky kissed her lips, eyes closed. Bridget could still taste herself. They both stilled, each of their free hands wrapping around the other’s waist.

Bridget wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that—kissing and touching as their heart rates slowed— but eventually Franky lifted her leg off of Bridget’s hip, forcing Bridget’s fingers to slip out of her.

Both groaning at the loss of contact, Bridget pulled Franky closer to her side, resting her head against a heated, flushed shoulder.

Franky finally spoke as Bridget’s fingertips drew tiny circles around her navel.

“Gee, Gidge, if I would have known you were _this_ good…”

Bridget smirked, playfully nudging her side.

“Oh yeah? You would have what?” She smiled.

For a second, it looked like Franky was going to answer her, a retort playing on the tip of her tongue. But at the last second, she swallowed it. She shook her head against the pillow, biting her lip, a smile dancing behind the expression.

“Nothin’.”

Bridget reached out and gently cupped the side of Franky’s face, stroking her jaw.

“Many hidden talents I’ve discovered today,” Bridget smiled, a twinkle in her eyes.

Franky raised her eyebrows, her smile growing, creasing her green eyes.

Bridget could stare at that smile all day.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like…” Bridget drawled, placing a kiss above her right breast.

“Like you can cook the best bloody pasta I’ve ever tasted, and make it look like the easiest thing in the world.”

Another kiss.

Franky smirked. “Is that right? Thanks,” she winked.

“Mhmm. And that you can do things with only one hand far more efficiently than most can do with two.”

Bridget expected a teasing tone in response, but instead, Franky’s face fell flat briefly, before she cleared her throat. “Anything else?”

Bridget knew better than to prod, so she simply continued, placing another kiss on cooling skin, this time atop her Franky’s rib cage.

“That you’re really fucking good with your tongue,” she deadpanned.

She swore she saw the hint of a blush creep along Franky’s neck, before descending again, swiping her tongue along Franky’s pulsepoint.

Growling, Franky rolled them over again to return the favor, peppering Bridget’s neck and chest and in kisses.

They stayed there like that for a while, wrapped in each other— sometimes talking, sometimes not.

Bridget had once suspected that a bold, physical consummation of her feelings for Franky would leave a small tear of _guilt_ , lodged somewhere deep in her gut. One that would be unmendable— irrefutable evidence of a slash to her moral compass.

There was no tear. No cut.

She knew that _others_ would think there was.

Bridget found she didn’t care. At some level, that terrified her.

“Hey Gidge?”

“Mm?” She hummed without opening her eyes, sleep fast approaching.

“My wrist— and my hand… they were broken a couple times when I was a kid. Had’a learn how to do stuff with one. It all came back pretty easily— muscle memory and all that shit...” Franky trailed off then.

Bridget opened her eyes, but didn’t shift her gaze— kept her head tucked into Franky’s side, arm encircling her waist.

Her chest tightened in dull pain, and she pulled Franky closer.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Franky tapped her foot against the hard, cold floor, knee bouncing in rapid succession in an attempt to expel anxious energy.

She wasn’t planning on coming back here— hadn’t wanted to _ever_ come back.

But when she checked her email on Bridget’s laptop— for the first time since surrendering her electronics and internet access to this fuckin’ place— she had an email from one of the production assistants, asking her to come in to pick up her stuff.

She had been confused, frustrated that they couldn’t just ship her belongings to her P.O. Box, like Bridget had said they could, and _would_. But Bridget was at work, so she couldn’t ask her, and she just wanted to get this over with as fast as possible.

The lobby’s door finally swung open.

“Franky, hi, thanks so much for coming in. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Her stomach churned at the sight of John Marks. She had naively assumed that she was simply meeting with a P.A., signing some piece of paper and then would be on her way.

Her heart sank, panic setting in.

_Shit. Fuck! How could she have been so stupid?_

“Why don’t we go into my office?” The exec gestured toward to the hallway on his right.

“Nuh, I’m good here,” Franky crossed her arms over her chest, standing. “Don’t I just have to sign some shit?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah— of course, but— uh, Taylor?”

Franky followed his gaze over to the reception desk, where the young girl behind it looked up.

“Can you give us a sec? Thanks, hon.”

Franky eyes scanned the room as nonchalantly as possible, noting the exits.

Whatever Marks was about to try, she would damned if she let it work.

Taylor left the lobby, and as soon as the door clicked, Franky changed her stance— back straight, chest out, weight on her right hip.

“You don’t scare me,” she shrugged.

Marks smiled, and Franky wanted to wipe it off of his fucking smug face.

“You wound me, Doyle, I’m not here to scare you. I just wanna talk, yeah?”

“Just give me my stuff.”

“You’ll get it. But first thing’s first.” He pulled a slim, white envelope from his suit jacket pocket, and handed it to Franky.

Franky narrowed her eyes, her heart pumping blood rapidly through her veins.

“What’s this?”

“Just take it,” Marks tilted his hand up.

Franky grabbed the envelope, tearing it open, and unraveled the contained, thin piece of paper.

Her blood should have boiled at the contents. She should have seethed with rage, at the indignance, at her _life_.

But the thing was, she wasn’t even fuckin’ surprised.

She eyed Marks with sharp daggers.

“What do you want?”

“Ah, simple really,” Marks shrugged. “Tell the police you made the whole thing up. Michael Pennisi never touched you— never tried to rape you.  _You_ came onto _him_.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I adore and appreciate everyone's kudos and comments more than anything! 
> 
> Also, I've added the official 'non-con' warning to the story, as it comes up in greater deal in this chapter.

The porch creaked under the weight of her boots and the wind howled softly. The door clicked open as she turned the spare key that Bridget had given her into the lock. It shut behind her with a gentle _thud_.

Franky didn’t notice any of that. She was on autopilot. She didn’t _feel_ anything except the wrinkled paper cutting into her hand like a million knives. She didn’t _see_ anything except the red, bloody image tucked inside those knives. She didn’t _hear_ anything except the deafening _buzz_ between her ears. Her nose did not register the sweet mixture of vanilla and oak that signaled the comfort of Bridget’s home. She only _smelled_ cheap cologne and scotch drenched in sweat.

She leaned against the door frame.

 _Tell the police you made the whole thing up_.

Well she had no fuckin’ choice now, did she?

Opening her fist for the first time since leaving the production office, Franky shoved crumpled white into her back pocket. She twisted her jaw and unconsciously swiped two fingers under her chin.

So _stupid_! She was so stupid to think that she could actually win this thing. Beat the fuckers at their own game.

She furiously rubbed her palm over her eyes, to no avail.

She heard his growls and the smack of _her_ knuckles connecting with his nose and mouth and ribs over and over again.

She never regretted what she did ten years ago. The fucking prick deserved it… every last blow.

Maybe that was the problem. She didn’t for a second regret nearly beating a man to within an _inch_ of his life. She reckoned she would have done the same to Pennisi if she had been given the chance, alone in that kitchen.

Dropping her hands from her face, Franky caught sight of one of the 5x7 frames hanging on the leftmost wall. An old photo of Bridget— probably six or seven years old— toothless smile wide, arms lazily draped around both of her parents’ necks.

And her heart sank.

Franky Doyle did not belong here. She was _playing house_ , fucking kidding herself that she could simply wipe her hands clean of who she _was_ — who she had always been. Who she would always be.

A violent, impulsive, vagabond.

And if she couldn’t change, then Bridget would surely wipe _her_ _own_ hands clean of Franky.

She wasn’t going to stick around to see how long it would take. Franky turned around and walked back out the door without another thought.

 

* * *

 

Bridget checked her watch for the thousandth time when she heard the front door open.

“Franky?” she called from the kitchen, setting her wine glass on the counter— her voice higher and more frantic than she intended.

She barely made out the sigh, and the soft, hesitant ‘yeah’ that came from the hallway.

_Oh, thank god._

Bridget was in the foyer, taking Franky into her arms, before her brain could catch up to the instinctual action.

But Franky didn’t relax into her arms, as she had done every time in the past. Her body was cold and stiff, as if she had been outside for hours. Her thin arms stayed at her sides; they didn’t find their way to the indents of Bridget’s waist, as they usually did. Her muscles were tense, rigid… Bridget could feel them under the thin layers of t-shirt and jacket.

Anxiety rose in the pit of her stomach, but she pulled back automatically, leaving only a hand on Franky’s arm.

_Give her space._

“I was worried, Franky.” Bridget’s voice was soft, tentative— opposite to the alarm she signaled when she heard Franky come through the door.

Franky sucked in a breath, averting her eyes, fingers swiping at the tip of her nose. “I know.”  

Bridget bit her lip, moving her hands to her hips. _Something_ had happened. And it was killing her, fucking killing her, that she knew she couldn’t ask. Not right this second, anyway.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay, let’s go to the couch, yeah? I’ll make some tea… there’s some leftovers from the other night in the fridge, I’ll heat those up…” Bridget’s voice trailed off as she walked with Franky inside to the living room, her hands flitting through the air and to the side of her face in nervous energy.

Franky didn’t say anything as she collapsed onto the couch, so Bridget busied herself in the kitchen, coming back with a mug of hot tea and a bowl of pasta five minutes later.

“Thanks.” Franky took the food, her eyes concentrating a little too hard on stabbing the correct bit of soft noodle and cheese with her fork.

For the next fifteen minutes, the only sounds through the house came from the scraping of metal against the glass bottom of the bowl, and the occasional car passing by the house.

It was nearly dark out, what was left of the low sun casting dark, ominous shadows throughout the room. Bridget reached over and switched on the lamp on the side table.

Franky placed her empty bowl on the coffee table and sighed.

“I’m sorry, Gidge.”

“For what, baby?”

Franky shook her head and reached into her back pocket, handing Bridget a crumpled, halfway torn piece of paper.

Bridget didn’t know what she expected to be on the paper, but it certainly wasn’t _this_. She unconsciously sucked in a breath.

Two close photographs of a man, bald, in his forties, maybe— though it was hard to tell— stared back at her. She couldn’t make out any other features, as he was covered in blood from the tip of his hairline to the collar of his shirt. Dark spots of black and blue outlined his eyes, with the left one completely swollen shut. Crusted drips of brownish red ran down from his nose. His upper lip was split, cracked straight down the middle.

Bridget chewed on her lip as she stared at the jarring images.

“I did that.” Franky’s voice sounded far away, even though she was sitting right next to her.

The sudden admission did not shock Bridget; she had assumed as much, somewhere in the back of her mind, the second she unfolded the paper.

She knew she had to stay calm. Keep her voice and emotions even. Be patient.

That’s not what she _wanted_ to do, of course. What she wanted, was to ask Franky to explain, _immediately_ , because she didn’t think her heart could bear the suspense anymore. Was Franky in trouble? Was _she_ hurt? Who was this man? What she wanted, was to throw the paper out and take Franky in her arms, and make her forget whatever thoughts and demons plagued her. Because... she was not Franky’s psych anymore. And yet, there was such a fucking _fine_ line— a line she was constantly teetering on the edge of.

“Okay. Okay, Franky,” she said for the second time that night. “Tell me who this is.”

Franky just grimaced and shook her head, keeping her gaze locked on the empty bowl and tea mug in front of her.

And Bridget couldn’t hold back anymore, and her voice came out just the slightest bit… desperate.

“Franky, whatever it is, it will be okay, whatever happened…” Bridget rested a hand on Franky’s shoulder, but was immediately shaken off in violent frustration.

Franky stood from the couch, throwing her arms up in the air, directly over Bridget.

“It’s not going to be fucking _okay_! Don’t you get it? This is me! _This_ is what I’m capable of!” Franky’s eyes were wild, primal, as she threw her pointer finger towards the pictures.

Bridget didn’t budge, so Franky continued, nostrils flaring. “Just give it up, Gidge! I’m gonna let you in on a little secret here. This?” Franky gestured widely with her left arm. “This is me just playing house! Nothing more. It was never going to work.”

Bridget’s chest tightened at Franky’s harsh words— that seemed to come from nowhere— but she didn’t dare let her emotions show. No, she would not allow Franky to believe that this display was _working_.

Franky kept going.

“I go from place to place taking what I need and then I leave. You? This house? No different,” Franky shrugged, her jaw set into a tight, hard line.

“Unless you wanna see _that_ ,” she flicked her chin and eyes toward the paper, still in Bridget’s hand. “I suggest I just leave now. Save us both the trouble, hey.”

 _Oh_ , Franky.

There was a mask atop her soft features, one that Bridget knew she wore like a second skin. But Bridget saw right through her hardness, to the vulnerability. To the fear.

It didn’t excuse any of what Franky had just said to her, to hurt her, but she _understood_. And there would be time to address the words later.

Because there _had_ to be time.

So Bridget laid the paper face down onto the coffee table, and sat up straight, head held high, crossing her fingers together over her lap.

“You done?”

Confusion etched itself for a moment into the lines around Franky’s eyes and brow as she shook her head in a shrug.

“No.” Bridget’s voice was firm.

Franky’s brow creased harder as she took a step back, crossing her arms over her chest. “What the fuck do you mean ‘no’?”

Bridget took a deep breath. “No, you’re not leaving. Not like this. Tomorrow, if you still want to pack up and go, I won’t stop you. But I’m not letting you fucking leave just because you’re _scared_. Whatever this is, we’ll deal with it, okay?”

Franky shook her head, lips pursing tighter together, eyes cast downward. “You don’t know shit, Gidge.”

Bridget ignored her, because she knew the wall was about to crack. She slowly reached forward from her place on the couch, until her fingertips just barely grazed Franky’s hand. She felt no resistance, no objection, so she tentatively grasped Franky’s fingers, and held.

And that was it.

Franky’s face fell forward with a silent shudder, as if she were just too tired to keep up the act any more. She collapsed onto her knees in between the couch and the table, her hand still in Bridget’s grasp.

Bridget stayed put and let her cry. Only when the last sob hiccuped through Franky’s body, did Bridget finally climb down off the couch and maneuver to the floor, pulling Franky into her arms.

There was only silence again, and Bridget knew this wasn’t the first— or last— time, that she would spend waiting for Franky to find words she had never spoken before.

She would wait forever though.

Franky eventually took a deep breath, her head still resting atop Bridget’s chest. “I went to pick up my stuff at the production office today.”

“Shit, Franky, you shouldn’t have had to—”

“Well, I did. I was so _stupid_. It was a ploy by Marks.”

“The EP?” Bridget’s features contorted in confusion.

“Yeah. He gave me this envelope, and that paper was inside.” She laughed ironically, the vibrations reverberating against Bridget’s chest.

 _Shit_. A chill ran through Bridget’s body, and she was sure that Franky felt it.

“I shouldn’t even be fuckin’ surprised. It’s done. If I don’t recant my story about Pennisi to the police, the whole thing’s gonna blow up in my face.”

Bridget’s mind swirled with indignation, the slow realization of what Franky was telling her becoming clearer. “He’s blackmailing you.”

Franky shrugged against her. “Blackmail, fate, karma. Call it what you want, Gidge.”

Bridget bit her lip, hesitating for a moment.

“Franky, who’s in the picture?”

Franky’s muscles tightened under Bridget’s hands; she was silent for a few beats, and Bridget wondered if she was going to give her any real answers tonight. But then Franky cleared her throat.

“He was my flatmate. I— fuck,” she hissed in frustration.

Bridget squeezed her waist in reassurance. _I’m not going anywhere._

Franky shook her head and found her words. “Listen, I didn’t have any money back then, yeah? I mean, I barely have a cent to my name now, but back then? I left foster care when I was sixteen with the shirt on my back, ya know?”

She took a breath.

“So, for about a month after I left, I was out on the streets most nights. And then one day, this dude in his thirties approached me. Sketchy motherfucker, and I knew that I shouldn’t, but I didn’t have a _choice_ , Gidge. I— he offered me a deal. Sex for a roof over my head. My _own_ roof, with my own _room_. I mean, I thought, what the hell, you know? I can lay there and get fucked and give blow jobs every once in a while, no big deal.”

Bridget was _so fucking thankful_ that they were not face to face right now. That she didn’t have to mask her pain, and aching heart that was currently lodged in her throat. It’s not that Bridget hadn’t suspected sexual assault as a component to Franky’s past. The signs, psychologically, were all there. The frequent STD checks as a young adult. The numerous signs of physical and emotional abuse. Her need for absolute control in the bedroom. But speculation and confirmation were two completely different things. And... she had heard versions of this story from countless women. But, fucking _hell_ , hearing about it from someone she cared deeply about, on such an intimate level… _jesus_ , she wasn’t prepared.

Sixteen. She was just _a baby._

A tear escaped over Bridget’s eyelid, running down her cheek until it fell from her chin; it pooled in the crux of her neck, just above where Franky’s head was resting.

“Anyway, it wasn’t just that one guy, obviously,” Franky continued. “Fucker had other flatmates, of course, who all wanted a piece of the action. I had rules. Everything was on my terms. I was… I _felt_ in control. It was a facade, of course, but the _feeling…_ feeling like I had the upper hand, that’s all that mattered to me. This one guy, he wasn’t so keen on that. He would try to sneak into my room late at night. For the most part, I deflected. Gave in, some of the time. It was just easier. I saved every cent I could from the dishwashing gig I got, counting down until I had just enough to get the hell out. It took me a year, but I did it. I told myself I was just going to stay there for one more week… add just enough of a cushion to be able to eat, once I got my own place.”

Franky paused then, her grip tightening along the hem of Bridget’s jumper, and Bridget wondered if the action was subconscious.

Bridget gulped. She knew where this story was going.

“He came in that night. I woke up with him on top of me. Inside me.”

Bridget’s hands clenched around Franky’s waist, and she just wanted to pull her _closer_ , as close as fucking possible.

Nothing seemed to be close enough.

Franky’s voice was even— monotone, flat. “I lost it. I fucking lost it. I surprised him I guess, dunno. So I was able to flip him… and I just starting pounding. I remember hearing a crack under my fist, but I didn’t feel it. I just. kept. pounding. I don't remember much else. I ran, I know that. Took my savings under the mattress and bolted. Never heard or saw any one of them again. I thought I coulda’ killed him.” Franky took a breath, her voice hitching on the last word.

“I kept waiting to be brought in by the police. But no one ever came. I rented a shit bedsit, got promoted to line cook. Tried not to think.”

Franky was silent then. There was a lump the size of a golf ball lodged in Bridget’s throat, and for the first time in her life after listening to a disclosure, she was... frozen.

“Franky…” her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Franky shot up then, hastily pushing herself off of Bridget’s body. She sat upright, wiped the back of her hand against the bridge of her nose, and shrugged.

Bridget knew that look.

_Don’t you dare dwell. Don’t you dare pity me._

_“_ Franky, that man deserved every punch.”

Franky’s eyes shifted, taken aback. And then she slapped her arms against her sides. “Gidge, did you hear a fuckin’ word I said? I almost _killed_ a man.”

 _I'm a_ **_monster_** _, you should be terrified of me._

And it was then that Franky’s earlier tirade over leaving… that Bridget was just another stop along her route, made complete sense to her.

Bridget straightened her posture. “Yeah, Franky. I heard you.”

And maybe she _should_ be scared. Apprehensive, at the very least. Maybe she was a fool for thinking this was going to work. The odds, logically, for this to be a one hundred percent healthy relationship, were not in her favor. She had seen it a hundred times before— inherently good people succumbing to the harsh effects of their previous social environment. And could anyone really blame them?

But she couldn’t help it. She was not afraid. She didn’t see a disturbed, violent person when she looked at Franky. She didn’t see a number, a statistic. She saw a survivor. Strength. Love.

She _loved_ her.

 _Oh_ , fuck.

Franky shook her head, almost in amused disbelief. “The point is, it’s over, Gidge. Pennisi’s going to get away with what he did. If I don’t retract my statement, Marks will make sure that everyone knows what I did to that man ten fucking years ago. My credibility will be shot. The angry girl who nearly killed a man with her fists— who prostituted herself for years?”

“Franky, you didn’t—”

“I DID, Bridget! I exchanged my body for a roof over my head. And then I beat a man to a bloody pulp. That’s who I am, that’s never going to fucking change. If I go through with these charges? Putting Pennisi away will be the least of my worries. I’ll never get another job, let alone do anything worthwhile with my life— who would hire me?”

Bridget’s own words flashed through her mind. _Nothing is fair. The world doesn’t care about fair_.

 **No**. Not this time.

She shook her head. “I refuse to believe that, Franky.”

Franky scoffed.

“Franky, no, listen to me. Marks is blackmailing you. That is a _crime_.”

“He has money, more connections than the fucking prime minister! It doesn’t fucking matter. Only _my_ crimes do,” Franky cried in exasperation.

“What those men did to you, that is a crime.”

“No, it’s not. Technically, yes; but not in the eyes of a jury. Historically, it’s not men who pay the price for _using_ prostitutes— it’s the prostitutes. The _women_. The Blake case, three years ago, for example. Girl goes on the street to feed her family, guy holds her at gunpoint, and _she_ gets charged with one count of assault and numerous counts of prostitution. I could go on. Point is, no one would be thrown on the chopping block except for _me_ , no matter which way you spin it here.”

Bridget nodded once curtly in understanding, fingertips moving to her lips. Truth be told, she was taken aback by Franky’s very apparent, very… _specific_ knowledge of the law.

“Franky, how did Marks get this information on you?”

Franky shrugged. “Dunno, it’s not public knowledge.. fucking prick must have come to him, can’t even imagine how much Marks paid him off.”

“Mm. Okay.” Bridget pursed her lips under her fingertips. This wasn’t done. She would fight this tooth and nail with Franky— _for_ Franky— if she had to. Franky deserved justice, and if they had to bring down Marks, the fucking executive producer of a major multimillion dollar company, to do it?

Well.

“Franky… what are the laws surrounding perversion of justice?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't forget about this, I swear! Thanks for hanging in there-- only a couple more chapters to go. Would love to hear everyone's thoughts :).

Franky blinked. Pins and needles tingled from her shoulder to the tips of her fingers. She smirked, thinking of the last time she woke up feeling like she’d lost a limb.

 _“Fuck off,”_ she had grunted only six months ago, as she shoved an unconscious Amy to the other side of the small bed.

The image in front of her _now_ wasn’t much different than that one from recent memory. Hair splayed across her neck. A head tucked into the crux between her shoulder and breastbone. An arm slung over her waist.

But this time, she would let her own arm go slack— lose complete circulation— before she moved Bridget off of her.

Franky rolled her eyes _._ Jesus _Christ_ , she was a fuckin’ softie.

Of course, she wasn’t quite ready to admit just yet, how the curl of Bridget’s body around her own shot warmth through her insides; _settled_ her in a way she wasn’t accustomed to.

The sun was rising, peeking through the blinds and casting dull shadows along their tangled form.

They had only gotten three— _maybe_ , four— hours of sleep. Bridget had insisted on pouring over law books and former settlements and legal jargon with her, until the darkest early hours of morning.

_“Gidge, nuh, ya don’t need to help me.”_

Franky had tried to insist, she really did. Bridget, of course, had rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist into the air, other hand resting on her hip, and told Franky to toss her a file. As if it was a fucking normal date-night activity. As if trying to find a loophole to counteract a powerful man’s blackmail—in order to secure _justice_ for a sexual assault and attempted rape— was no big deal.

Except it was. It _was_ a big deal.

Because after the things Franky had said to her, three nights ago, when that stupid _photo_ lit a fire against her hand— had made her numb, because she was used to getting _burned—_ well. Bridget should have tossed her out like a pile of ashes.

But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Because Bridget Westfall did not come with strings or conditions. And Franky realized that she could punched through a wall; hurled Bridget’s things across the room and shattered glass. It wouldn’t have mattered. The events would have played out the same. Bridget would have still offered her help night in and night out.

Franky shivered. Truthfully, the thought fucking terrified her.

 

* * *

 

Franky huffed, slamming her laptop shut. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, she leaned back against the kitchen chair.

This was futile. Perversion of justice by blackmail was—apparently— next to impossible to prove. And even if she _did_ prove it— that she were being blackmailed by a big wig producer to falsify her testimony, that Pennisi _did_ attack her— there was still the possibility that her credibility would be shot anyway. People simply might not _care_ , that in this most recent instance, Franky was the victim. It would still come out that Franky Doyle was a lying, cheating, violent, prostitute— Marks would make sure of it. Whether that was all in the past wouldn’t matter. The public tended not to be so forgiving; Stories were painted in black and white. There was no gray. No room for _complicated_ , or _mitigating circumstances_. She could kiss her hope for a decent future goodbye.

Rubbing her palms furiously against her eyes, Franky gritted her teeth, frustration escaping in the form of a muffled growl.

There had to be another way.

The doorbell sounded then; the sudden, loud, echoing ring ripped her from her thoughts as she jumped in her seat. Glancing at the time on her phone, she realized that Bridget was due home any minute.

“Probably forgot her keys,” Franky mumbled as she stood, stretching tense muscles that had been, for the last few hours, hunched over screens and books.

“Gee, Gidge, now I know why ya keep me ‘round,” Franky chirped, tongue in cheek, as she jogged to the door.

But it wasn’t Bridget on the other side.

Franky’s smile faded, her back arching and eyes hardening— her body on reflexive autopilot as her mind tried to catch up.

Strange, unfamiliar, brown eyes stared at her. A woman, tall— eyes just above Franky’s. Toned and tan body in a slim, sleeveless, professional black dress. Brown hair, a couple of shades lighter than Franky’s, halfway pulled back, with a few loose strands framing her face.

Surprise, or confusion— both, maybe— flashed across the woman’s face; it only lasted for less than a second, before the expression was replaced with a cordial, forced smile.

“I’m looking for Bridget.”

The words were… harsh. Definitive. A statement, not a question.

And Franky knew who this woman was before any sort of formal introduction.

“She’s not here, can I help you with something?” Franky kept her face expressionless, playing dumb; Bit her tongue on _‘ya know what her car looks like, don’tcha? It’s not in the driveway, is it?’_

The woman smirked, apparently amused. “No. No, I don’t think you can.”

She paused, eyes creasing, just the _tiniest_ bit— they shifted downward, and then back up, over the length of Franky’s stance. Sizing her up.

Franky had no idea if this woman had any prior knowledge of her—  of another woman crashing in what used to be _her_ house, with who used to be _her_ girlfriend. Something told Franky that it wasn’t something Bridget was advertising.

She wondered why it mattered.

The woman spoke again. “Well, Bridget’s due home soon? I’ll come in and wait.”

Franky simply raised her eyebrows, cocking her head. It was a tactic that came second nature— A feign of indifference to force the other player’s hand, while showing as little as possible of your own.

It worked.   

The woman jutted her chin forward, gesturing over Franky’s shoulder. “This is my house. I’m Julia.”

Franky didn’t budge.

She had half a mind to tell _Julia_ to fuck off, that she could wait on the porch for all she cared. She wouldn’t have thought twice about doing that three months ago. But this _wasn’t_ three months ago, and so for the second time in less than two minutes, Franky bit down on her tongue hard to enough to draw blood. She swallowed the taste of iron and acid as quickly as it came.

Julia didn’t wait for an answer, anyway, stepping over the threshold without so much as a nod to Franky. The woman kicked off her heels, vibrant red flashing high status underneath crisp black, as they tumbled to the hardwood floor. She swayed her hips as she walked toward the kitchen, grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet and sitting down at the counter. Like she fuckin’ owned the place.

Franky’s throat felt hot, and her muscles tightened, an extra layer of rigidity cloaking her skin. Arms crossed, she stood against the far side of the counter opposite to Julia— body weight resting on her right hip, lips set into a flat line.

Julia poured herself the rest of the leftover coffee from this morning that had been sitting in the brewer.

Franky wasn’t dumb. Julia’s message was as clear as the sun that was shining out her ass.

_This is my territory._

“I know you from somewhere,” Julia spoke against the mug she was clutching.

Franky shrugged.

“Wait, are you the chick from that show? The one that beat up the judge?” Her face was flat, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away.

 _Oh, Bridget’s sure got herself in a pile of shit with this one_.

Franky swallowed, gritting her teeth, as she sucked in a subtle, harsh breath.

Franky Doyle never felt the need to prove anything to anyone. Except, of course, to herself. Prove to _herself_ that she was worthy. Wasn’t a piece of trash. And the truth was, she didn’t give a flying fuck what this woman thought of her, or the assumptions that she clearly made, that _everyone_ clearly made about her.

But of course, _this_ time, her worthiness did not only reflect on herself. It reflected on Bridget, too.

And something sharp burned inside of Franky.

She swiped a knuckle under her nose and shook her head, choppy fringe and ponytail following suit.  “You have no idea who I am.”

Julia raised her eyebrows, amusement still playing at the tips of her mouth, the corners of her eyes.

Franky clenched her fists. Her first instinct was to connect Julia’s smirk with the inside of her fist.

A voice spoke behind the escalating buzzing inside her mind _. ‘It’s not_ **_you_**.’

Was it, though? Was this her fuckin’ _fate_? An endless cycle of taking two steps forward and one step back, continuously slipping from the next ring of the ladder. Playing mind games with whoever her next opponent happened to be. Winning battles but never wars.

Fuck that. Not anymore. She was hungry, she was more than battle scars and cheap tricks, and she _knew_ she was smart enough to rise.

Her fists relaxed. Franky cleared her throat and glanced to the floor before boring her eyes into Julia’s.

“Nah.” Franky shook her head again. “Not playin’.”

Lines creased together on Julia’s forehead. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve played games my entire life with people like you. People who want to see just how far they can push. How much they can get away with. I’m done.” Franky leaned her body forward towards the countertop, swiping her arms through the air opposite each other, in front of her chest.

Julia looked at Franky like she was put off by something foul she had smelled. And maybe she said something, but Franky didn’t hear her.

She didn’t hear her, because something clicked. That was the fucking answer.

She could not win the battle against Marks. So she wasn’t going to play.

The front door opened then, followed by a slightly higher pitched, slightly more concerned “ _Franky?”_ than normal.

“In here, Gidge,” Franky called out, as she hastily piled together her notes and books that were strewn across the long green table, and shoved them in her book bag.

She darted down the hallway, nearly knocking over Bridget in the process as she collided their lips together in a hard, quick kiss.

“I’ll be back soon. Got a bit of a pest problem in the kitchen; swatter didn’t work, think it needs something stronger,” Franky winked, jogging backwards on her heels to the front door.

“Franky—” Bridget frowned.

Franky was already on the porch and shutting the door as she yelled back. “Pennisi’s going down, Gidge!”

 

* * *

 

 The last thing Bridget had expected was to see Julia’s car parked outside. The last thing she expected was to see her ex-girlfriend sitting at the counter, sipping a cuppa in her kitchen.

“You built this house for me, you know.”

“ _You_ left.”

Bridget thought it might be harder than this. Seeing Julia again. Seeing her within four walls that she used to stand inside, when they were simply made of wood and bare bones.

But it wasn’t.

This house, after all, was never made for Julia. It had been built, with her in mind, sure. But not _made_.

This house, apparently, was fated instead, for pasta simmering on the stove and beer in the fridge. Eyeliner pencils accidentally dropped on the bathroom floor. Spontaneous dances around the living room and _‘oh fuck!’_ s that reverberated through the hallways.

It was fated for an _energy_ that Bridget had not known existed.

Julia, for credit’s sake, had not always been wound tighter than an unsprung coil. And Bridget did, at many points in the past, see a future with this woman. But it wasn’t meant to be. It was _never_ meant to be.

As Julia leaned against the front door and clasped her Louboutins together, the corners of Bridget’s mouth turned up, as she caught sight of the old photograph hanging on wall. Her toothless, seven-year-old self, squished happily in between the smiling faces of her parents. It was taken during a rare beach outing on a day her father was scheduled to be working, but instead, called out. She and Adam, who was only six at the time, built the most elaborate sand castle the coast had ever seen, and her parents spent hours teaching them how to surf. It was one of the best days of her childhood, probably. She had told her father as much, that night, as he tucked her into bed.

_“Ah, see, my darling. It was meant to be. Amor Fati, aye?”_

Bridget, back then, hadn’t understood what that meant. Just nodded her big blue eyes against her pillow, before she closed them and nodded off.

But now, she understood.

Amor Fati, indeed.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless apologies that I dropped off the planet with this story-- to anyone who is still hanging in there, THANK YOU! xx. Only two more chapters (including this one). The next and final update will be the epilogue.

Franky Doyle had always been reckless.

And not in a _normal_ way, the way someone might raise their stakes in a game of poker, instead of just cashing out their winnings while they were ahead.

No, Franky was reckless in the same way that a bee _stung_ with abandon— Maybe she would end up killing herself, but fighting to the death was better than waving a big ole’ white flag.

That’s what she used to think, anyway. And she had _just_ vowed to stop with the fucking games, afterall. Because she didn’t want to play, she really didn’t… but here she was anyway.

Because _this_ time, she would finally win the war.

She stood in front of Mike Pennisi’s double-wide apartment doors, and for the first time she second-guessed her plan— thought against stinging someone who was one hundred times bigger and more powerful.  But her fist was already in motion towards the heavy door, beads of sweat running in between her fingers, before she could oblige the pang in her gut any longer.

She rapped once, than louder, twice, onto the metal.

Pins and needles surged through her veins as she heard heavy footsteps approaching the door from the other side.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal Mike Pennisi standing a mere two feet in front of her. He had on a pair of black gym shorts and a stained white t-shirt. There was a bad case of five o’clock shadow around his neck and jaw; The gray, wiry hair didn’t even come close to covering the bright red patches and raised boils that covered his skin’s surface.

Franky didn’t feel the least bit sorry. They looked painful, and she was _glad_.

At first glance, he was nothing like the burly, hard man that Franky was used to— his shoulders were sunken and deep craters sat under his eyes. But when she forced herself to peer into his eyes, she saw him. The same entitlement. The same rage. The same disgust.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” Pennisi spat.

Franky forced herself relax her muscles. Turn on the charm that she had practiced and survived on for years.

“Wanted to see ya’,” she leaned against the door jam and shrugged.

Confusion etched itself in the lines around Pennisi’s hardened eyes.

“What the _fuck_ do you want, Doyle?”

_To put your disgusting ass in prison, where it belongs. Justice— for me, for all of the people like me._

Franky blinked. She could see, _feel_ , the anger already radiating off of him— bubbling up like lava inside a volcano that would eventually erupt.

 _Perfect_.

“I took the deal.”

Pennisi’s eyes narrowed, his thick arms crossed over his chest.

Franky winked. “Aye, don’t play dumb, Mikey boy. The deal that ensures you keep your cushy job spittin’ in people’s food, and me out of the kitchen for good.”

Pennisi growled, moving to slam the door in Franky’s face.

“Wait!” Franky caught the door with a smack against the palm of her hand, and softened her face.

_Retreat. Just get inside._

_“_ Mike, please, I just want to talk, yeah? Listen, I’m sorry for this whole mess. Let me explain.”

Franky paused, letting heavy silence fill the air. She knew the fucker wouldn’t be able to resist.

 _Like a cat waiting for a mouse to walk into a trap_.

Of course, Franky was walking into the trap right along with him, wasn’t she? This was suicide, she _knew_ it was suicide. But.

And then she saw it. The slightest upward tick of the corner of his mouth.

 _Gotcha_.

He lowered his arms, and gestured behind him, before retreating back inside.

Franky followed, her heart jolting an extra beat as she crossed the threshold and the door shut with a thud.

_Are you insane?_

The voice inside her head this time sounded a lot like Bridget’s, and suddenly Franky wanted out. She was in over her head, _way_ over.

Well, it was too fuckin’ late now.

And she wasn’t afraid to shed some blood for the sake of the long game, she never had been. So it wasn’t that. Maybe, the sharper-than-normal pangs in her gut came because the stakes were so much **higher** in _this_ game— the game that, if she made it to the end, had Bridget waiting for her, and a life with a promising career, and structure, and _purpose_.

It had never really mattered if she lost before, she realized.  And maybe that was why she had always chosen to play.

Franky took a breath, and straightened her shoulders. Zoned back in.

The only way to win this was to go in for the kill, so that was what she would do. She balled her fists, willing the rage to boil up in her chest.

“You’re such a fucking pig,” she seethed, cocking her head and clicking her tongue at Pennisi.

“A fucking _pathetic_ pig.” She took another breath, waiting on the temperature of Pennisi’s blood to rise just the slightest.

“You couldn’t even finish the job! You were _humiliated_ in front of your colleagues, the people that you swing your dick in front of every day!”

Pennisi’s upper lip twitched, a light shade of crimson appearing under his cheekbones.

Franky threw her arms up into the air.

“No wonder you came after me. I should have expected it! But you know what, Mik _ey_ ? I _didn’t_. You surprised me.”

She forced her tongue to peek between her lips, and a small chuckle to bounce out of her lungs.

“Sad, really. I still _beat_ you. I won.” Franky jutted her pointer finger in Pennisi’s direction.

“And everyone who looks at you, with those disgusting boils on your face, that’s all they see, isn’t it? That you’re a _loser_. That  _I_ beat you.

Pennisi’s eyes flashed black as embers.

 _Oh he wanted to burn her, all right_.

Franky continued, her voice raising three octaves, her arms flying through the air. “And then, to boot, you had to get Marks to save your sorry, pathetic, ass.”

Truthfully, Franky was shocked he was lasting this long without a word. An order from Marks, and his legal team, no doubt. A strict ‘Do Not Engage with Franky Doyle’ rule.

Didn’t matter. She would get him.

Franky inched closer until Pennisi was an arm’s length away. Until she was so close that she see the line of perspiration above his lip and smell his aftershave mixed with old cigar smoke.

She bit down on her lip to avoid heaving, and lowered her voice for the last blow.

“So that’s all I wanted to tell ya, Mikey,” she shrugged. “You are _weak._ You are _nothing_.”

Franky moved to turn her back to Pennisi, but not before she saw the last quiver of his lip. The last twitch in his eye.

He finally erupted, and grabbed Franky’s elbow, pushing the tops of his fingers as hard as possible into the thin skin on the inside of her arm.

She didn’t try to pull away.

Pennisi threw Franky up against the nearest wall, pinning her lower half with his legs and locking his forearm against her throat.

She choked for air, and he laughed.

“Oh Doyle, you shouldn’t have come here.” He flashed his teeth as his lips fully curled upwards.

“I’m nothing, am I?” You want nothing? I’ll give you nothing. Finish the damn job.” Pennisi tugged at his shorts with his free hand and tore the front of Franky’s jeans open.

“It’s almost cute how you think you won. And you’re right, I should have finished you off that day. Showed you who was boss without _playing_ for so long.”

Pennisi’s face was bright red, his eyes dilated as if he had just snorted three lines of coke.

But that made sense. This was his high, afterall. Dominance. Control. And he just couldn’t fucking resist.

Franky registered a persistent buzz against the back pocket of her ripped jeans, and her breath stopped halfway up her throat.

She had switched her phone to silent, but she forgotten that she had made Bridget an emergency contact. Emergency contacts bypassed silent mode when they called. 

 _Stupid_!

 _Gidget, please_. _I’ll be home soon._

But Pennisi was too far gone to even care that a phone was on her.

“No one can save you this time, hey?” He growled against the crook of her neck.

She had the evidence that she needed, she had already _won_. So she didn’t fight anymore. Didn’t say a word.

But call it what you want. Luck? A coincidence? _Fate?_

There was a knock against the front door, and Pennisi’s hand shot up, covering Franky’s mouth.

Then there was nothing, and Franky just wanted to get this the fuck over with.

This would be the last time someone forced her to submit. The last time someone shoved something inside of her. The last time someone would _use_ her.

 **That** , she vowed to herself.

Maybe that bullshit of pretending it was a loved one on top of you, instead of a violent assault invading your body, would work. Maybe she could go to her dreams and feel _Bridget_ kissing her and rocking into her and sighing into her chest.

But then something hard thrust against her thigh, and slimy, sweaty skin smashing against her, and she tried to push Bridget as far as possible out of her mind.

She didn’t want Bridget anywhere near this.

She barely heard the sound of keys rattling. The click of a lock. The turning of the doorknob.

All she knew was that suddenly, he was off of her, and somewhere, a door creaked open. Light flooded into the dim apartment from the corridor.

She didn’t remember ducking under Pennisi and knocking into the stunned, lanky man in a mechanic’s uniform as she bolted out the door. She didn’t remember zipping up the front of her pants. She didn’t remember getting into the elevator at the end of the hallway.

All she knew, when she felt the rush of hot wind against her face, and the sun beating down on her neck, was that she had gone into sting her target, and she survived.

She more than survived.

Franky’s hand trembled as she tore her phone from her back pocket, furiously clicking at the screen until she saw the marker on the most recent audio recording.

She closed her eyes, heaved once into her hand before she grasped at her abdomen and hurled into the grass.

She was alive.

 


	19. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all-- I cannot extend enough thanks for reading this story, and for always giving me such awesome feedback. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think! xx
> 
> Endless love for my amazing beta, AshleighSixx, and everyone who has stretched me as a writer! (Especially Including Carolinathousandcities!) love you all.

_It matters not how strait the gate,_  
_How charged with punishments the scroll,_  
_I am the master of my fate,_ _  
_ **_I am the captain of my soul_ **

— William Ernest Henley, “Invictus”

 _All that you rely on_  
_And all that you can fake_  
_Will leave you in the morning_  
_But find you in the day_  
  
_Oh, you're in my veins_ _  
_ **_And I cannot get you out_ **

— Andrew Belle, “In my Veins”

 

* * *

 

 _“This is insane. What you did, is_ **_insane_** _.”_

_“It’s not! It wasn’t insane. Gidge, I got him. I won.”_

_“At what cost, Franky? Jesus fucking Christ...”_

Bridget sloshed the final sip of a Malbec against the inside of her cheeks. It burned just the right amount.

Franky had come home two hours prior, disheveled. Face flushed, clothes just the slightest bit off-kilter. Hair tangled from running a hand through it one too many times.

But Bridget had seen it in her eyes. The dilated energy, the high. The relief.

Franky Doyle was reckless, yes. But in that moment, Bridget thought she wasn’t as reckless as she was _stupid_ , to thrust herself in the throes of such a dangerous game, _again._ To put her life on the line for the sake of…

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

High risk, high reward. If you want something done, do it yourself.

That was Franky.

Bridget smirked, thumbing her empty glass. She _knew_ that was Franky. Had fallen for _this_ Franky. So she wasn’t quite sure why Franky’s actions shook her to her very core.

Bridget felt sick— she actively had to push the bile back down her throat when she realized where Franky had been. What could have happened to her.

But it was more than that, and it frustrated her that she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Franky had won, after all. She _did_ beat those bastards at their own game. The audio recording of Pennisi blatantly assaulting her, blatantly admitting fault the first time around… it was more than enough to thwart Marks’ original threat of blackmail.

And yet.

Bridget sighed, placing her glass on the kitchen table in front of her. Her pointer fingers instinctively traveled to her temples, drawing light circles next to closed eyes. 

Franky would be back soon. She had left the house in a flurry of agitation, after Bridget’s response to her risk and reward was less than… enthused.

 _“I’m going for a run. I’ll be back,”_ she had grumbled, front door slamming behind her.

And she would. Be back, that is. Franky Doyle was a lot of things, but ‘liar’ was not one of them.

Bridget opened her eyes,  and found them drifting to the front door, her fingers interlocking as her hands dropped to the table in front of her.

Evidently, the picture hanging in the front hallway— the same one of her as a little girl with her parents, that had caught her eye earlier that day— had gone askew. Probably from the vibrations when Franky slammed the door.

Bridget stood and made her way over to the photo, nudging the bottom corner of the frame back into place.

She inadvertently locked eyes with her much younger, much more innocent self.

What would that little girl think of her now? Would she be proud? Concerned? Would she ask her grown-up self what in God’s name she was doing with someone like Franky Doyle, and tell her to get back to her much… simpler life?

Most likely.

That little girl in the photo was raised to think before she acted. Always stay one step ahead of the game. Never let emotions cloud her judgement.

Be brave, take risks… but do not allow yourself to be _reckless_.

The photo in front of her began to blur in her line of vision. Suddenly, Bridget subconsciously raised the tips of her fingers to her lips.

And maybe that was it. Maybe the pit in Bridget’s stomach really had nothing to do with Franky’s behavior, but her _own_.

Franky was reckless, sure. But Bridget had, all along, matched her action for action. Emotion for emotion. She had gone against every fiber of her being, broken every ethical statute, since she had met Franky Doyle. Towed the line between doing the _right_ thing, and the oh-so- _wrong_ thing. She had bypassed every stop sign, dodged every warning sign that flashed at her.

 _‘You know how this ends. You_ **_will_ ** _crash.’_

She blew through them on her own accord. Had… fallen in love with Franky. On her own accord.

She was reckless and selfish and put Franky’s care and mental health, not to mention her own livelihood, on the line.

Funny enough, that wasn’t what scared her most.

What terrified Bridget the most was that she didn’t regret... anything. Not one single choice.

If Franky was reckless, Bridget was… unhinged.

It was as if Franky Doyle’s furious catapult into her life was inevitable. A hurricane brought on by unforeseen circumstances— powerful, beautiful, magnetic energy—with the potential for destruction.

Except that Bridget seemed to be in the eye of the storm. Enveloped in calmness. Safety. Warmth. _Love_. Feelings that she was in no position to let go of.

The thing about the eye of the storm though, is that you’re only ever a misstep away from danger.

High risk, high reward. Bridget would… take it.

And the pit in her stomach slowly began to dissipate.

 

* * *

 

Bridget’s eyes darted from keyboard to notepad, fingers expertly smashing against keys.

If she could just finish this report before—

“Wooooooo!”

Franky’s cell phone clamoring against the table brought Bridget out of her reverie. She looked up, meeting expectant, cheerfully impish, green eyes.

“Wha- _at_?” Bridget sang, grinning, her expression mirroring Franky’s. She couldn’t help it.

Franky clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and winked. “I got it. You are looking at the new head bitch in charge at _the_ most prestigious kitchen in Melbourne.”

Franky’s smile grew, arms thrown out from her sides, palms up, in a grand ' _voilà_!’ motion.

“That’s fantastic, Franky,” Bridget smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing in sincerity.

She knew Franky would be given the position. Not only was Franky’s cooking superior to any of the other contenders for the job (Bridget definitely was not biased), and not only did Franky deserve it more than anyone (again, she _definitely_ wasn’t biased), but, to put it mildly, any and all high profile restaurants were chomping at the bit to hire her, ever since her recent positive presence in the media.

It had been three months since the demise of the show— since Franky had officially pressed charges against Pennisi. The media immediately got wind, and that was it. Unsurprisingly, after Franky’s story became public, five other women had come forward to accuse Pennisi of assaulting them. And then, five more. And three more after that. Some dated all the way back to two decades ago. Some were as recently as within the year.

As it turned out, Franky probably didn’t even need her backup recording that incriminated Pennisi. Including Franky’s, there were thirteen accusations thus far, and with that testimony alone, Marks and Pennisi didn’t have a leg to stand on, blackmail against Franky or not.

Women were writing Franky, contacting her, to tell her that she helped give them the courage to face their own assailants. Franky always brushed it off, her own impact. Didn’t take any direct credit, told these women that they had the strength within them long before she had come along. But Bridget knew. She knew that this…that these _women_ , gave Franky hope of her own; hope that she could make a _difference_. It invigorated her. Bridget wanted to bottle up that energy and hold onto it forever.

Bridget felt a soft hand tug on her own, encouraging her to stand up.

“Franky, I do have to finish this…”

“Nah, no way Gidge.” Franky grabbed the stereo remote behind them and pressed play.

“It’s not time to work, it’s time to party. Come on, get up!”

When Bridget finally gave up and stood, Franky wrapped her arms around Bridget’s waist and crashed her lips on top of her own. A chill ran up her spine opposite to the warmth that was spreading through her belly.

Yes, she definitely wanted to tuck this away and bottle it forever. Good thing she didn’t have to.

  

* * *

 

Franky huffed in mild frustration. “Gidge, you are honestly the worst fuckin' critic. How the hell is this supposed to help me, if you think every single one is _the best_?”

Bridget simply shrugged—too preoccupied with the garlicky, cheesy tortellini that was currently melting in her mouth—to elicit much more of a response.

Franky groaned, smacking her arms against her sides, before falling into the kitchen chair opposite Bridget.

“This is your favorite, so why don’t you just do this one?”  Bridget reasoned once she had successfully cleaned out her bowl.

Franky bit her lip. “Dunno, all of the high profile food critics will be there, you don’t think it’s too simple?”

Bridget shrugged again, and Franky groaned, before shaking her head, amusement peeking around her features.

“Ya want more?”

Franky must have already known the answer to that— she was already in motion before Bridget could answer.

“You know, Tortellini En Brodo was my favorite thing to make way before I even read two words of Greek mythology.” Franky’s tone was causal, but her back was still turned towards Bridget at the stove, hands absentmindedly spooning extra broth over the pasta, before pouring them back into Bridget’s empty bowl.

Bridget took a breath. “Mm. I figured as much.”

Franky turned around then, eyebrows raised, arms crossing lazily against her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Franky’s tone was light… curious, more than defensive.

Bridget set her glass down on the table. “Well, I just didn’t peg you to _actually_ favor a tale about a voyeur creepily peeping on a woman’s belly button.”

Franky creased her eyes at Bridget, seeming to study her, before she uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips. She shook her head, attempting to mute her smile. “Yeah, whatever.”

Franky sat back down at the table, handing Bridget her bowl back.

“Thanks, baby,” Bridget wagged her eyebrows suggestively, eyeing the tortellini, fork at the ready.

Franky laughed, and then, moments later, “you gonna ask me why it’s _actually_ my favorite?

Her eyes were fixed on the label of her beer bottle.

“Only if you want to tell me.”

Franky started picking at the label, and Bridget set her fork down, waiting.

She would wait forever.

“My dad, he.. wasn’t so bad, I guess. When I was real little, at least. Mum hopped herself up for good as soon as I was born, but...” Franky paused and shrugged, and Bridget knew that the description of her mother barely skimmed the surface. She would tell her more when she was ready.

Or maybe she wouldn’t, and that would be okay, too.

Franky continued. “Wasn’t always bad though, apparently. Dad used to tell this story of how one time, he saved up all his money and took her to Italy.”

Franky grimaced slightly, scrunching her nose and mouth closer together.

“Not like she fucking deserved it. But he talked about this dinner they had there; that it was the best thing he had ever tasted. His fuckin’ eyes lit up like saucers when he would talk about it, and he would do the worst, _cheesiest_ Italian accent.

Franky cleared her throat and brought the tips of her pointer and middle fingers together against her thumb,  and gestured grandly in the air, shaking her hand.

" _Tortellini en Brodo_!”

Deprecation and a click of her tongue laced her imitation of the thick Italian accent.

Franky scoffed. “Didn’t know what the fuck a tortellini even was, of course, but eventually I looked it up. And then I found a recipe at the library, and I nabbed a rolling pin from the school cafeteria. Stole a few bucks from a kid’s bag to buy the ingredients. Learned how to roll the dough, make the filling. Tasted pretty damn good by the time I was twelve.”

Franky looked up at Bridget for the first time since she started her story, and winked. Deflecting.

Bridget offered a half smile, and Franky averted her eyes again. Then after a few beats, she shrugged nonchalantly, “Dunno, it was stupid. Kid stuff. Thought if my dad came back, and I made it for him, then he would stay.”

Bridget could easily put the rest of the pieces together.

“Franky—”

Franky’s eyes darted up, meeting Bridget’s. _Don’t_ , they said. And Bridget wouldn’t. She wouldn’t dare. There would be time for that later.

So she cleared her throat, and took Franky’s hand from across the table.

“Definitely make this one for the critics dinner on Saturday.”

Franky returned the smile, the one that curled up just so on the right side of her face, and then dropped Bridget’s gaze. She swiped roughly at the bridge of her nose, and bit the inside of her cheek.

Bridget knew Franky was _this_ close to the dam breaking. She also knew that Franky didn’t want it to.

So Bridget changed the subject.

“Have some job news, too, actually.”

Franky’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah?”

Bridget took a gentle swing of her wine. “A colleague of mine emailed, asked if I would be interested in doing an interim position in corrections.”

“What, like, in a prison?”

Bridget nodded. “Mhm. Maximum security women’s. Apparently they’ve got a sudden opening. It’s not a done deal or anything. I would have to interview, but I think I’ll give it a go. You know, my first position out of uni, I worked in a juvenile detention facility. Always thought about going back, to be honest.”

Franky inhaled sharply. “Well, shit, Gidge. Have a thing for complicated, dysfunctional, angry women, don’tcha?”

Franky winked, tongue peaking through teeth, arms crossing.

Bridget shook her head, turning her head to the side.

It was a joke, she knew it was. But still, a twinge knitted in her gut.

 _Would_ she have fallen for Franky, if she were a _prisoner_?

 _God_ , she hoped not. But to be fair, it wasn’t that much of a leap.

Bridget turned to face Franky again, noting that her expression was suddenly serious, hints of her previous teasing tone completely gone.

“Coulda’ been me, you know. I could have _actually_ gone to prison, Gidge I was so close to—”

Bridget shook her head.

She wanted to tell Franky _never_ . That it could  _never_ be her. But they both knew that wasn’t true. It terrified her to think of what _could_ have happened. Where Franky _could_ have ended up.

“It’s not,” she choked out. “It’s not you, Franky.”

Franky loudly exhaled, nodding.

“You’re right. It’s not… I. I feel like a weight’s been lifted, Gidge. I feel free.”

Franky smiled. And it was watery and it was raw, and _god_ , Bridget just wanted to tell this woman how much she _loved_ her.

Soon.

“You are, Franky. You _are_ free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quick things--
> 
> 1) I made a conscious decision to end this on Bridget's POV, because I felt that Franky's growth and introspection had reached its maximum within the confines of this story (given that I've chosen to end it here.) If Franky were to go over and examine exactly why she went to Pennisi's apartment, I felt it maybe would have gotten too repetitive, and honestly, to dissect her motive and reasons for ALL of her "high risk high reward" behavior would take many more chapters! 
> 
> 2) The end definitely lends itself for the opportunity of a sequel... As of now, there are no specific plans for one, but, it's definitely a possibility!


End file.
